Gods & Monsters
by the.subverter
Summary: Miranda Lawson struggles to keep an increasingly destructive Jane Shepard aimed at the Collectors and not the people around her. Meanwhile, Maya Brooks employs harsh methods to groom Shepard's clone to take its rightful place.
1. Larva

A/N: I've returned to the fandom (yes, I know there are other stories to update). I was on the prowl the other day for some CloneShep/ Brooks stories and was surprised (crushed) that there weren't any. So a few notes: Maya Brooks will for the majority of this story be referred to as Hope Lilium, the alias she had while she was with Cerberus (and the one she has when she meets cloneShep). As Maya Brooks is a name used only for a few days, it didn't gel with me to have it used in events that take place much earlier than the Citadel DLC content, even if Hope is probably another alias.

This will also be slightly AU to fit some of my purposes. I'm tagging femShep in this until they update the character dropdown with Shepard Clone (f)!

What else? There will be some xenophobia in this story. It's not pretty but Maya/Hope definitely displays those tendencies and will influence our darling clone in that regard. Yes, there will be some eventual shipping in this story but don't expect it for a while. A long while. The rest of the Normandy crew will be around but also, probably not for a while. Also, this story will likely be lengthy. And Hope/Maya will eventually be less bitchy (but not for a long while). Is there a pattern here...?

Many, many thanks for Allusive Man both proofing and bouncing ideas off me. 80% of the cool ideas in this story are his and I'm here just trying to execute them in some meaningful way. He also came up with this chapter title and summary. So basically I'm just a typist.

End of that novel.

* * *

The clone wakes.

Hope Lilium looks it over. The clone is in a panic, gasping for air, arms up, searching.

Brilliant. It lives. Better yet, she beat that bitch Miranda Lawson to the punch. This will be an opportunity to set things right.

There's a medical tray to the side and Brooks lifts the injection gun, brushing her fingers over the woman's burning forehead before bringing the injection gun to its neck, aligning it with her vein and pulling the trigger. Bam.

It sleeps. Now to take care of loose threads.

Jones, the awkward bastard with the goofy thick mustache comes running in, ironic designer glasses perched at the end of his nose. No one's worn glasses since the twenty-first century. Jones has been excited about the project and he's good enough that Brooks is certain he's never been laid. "I saw her vitals spike on the monitor!" He stands at the clone's side, looking at it anxiously. "Did you see it? Did you see her move?"

"Yes. Great work." She did most of it, though. Brooks takes the gun from the holster at her side, points it at the back of his head and pulls the trigger. It's a more dignified way to go. Jones has never seen action and no doubt he would have pissed himself if he'd seen the gun. Not that he won't do that as a corpse.

Blood sprays onto the clone's sleeping face, dotting its cheeks and lips, beading on its eyelashes.

No one's really born without a bit of blood. With each new death comes life. It's poetic, maybe, but she's never cared for poetry.

* * *

They go on the run and lay low. The clone has a face that's recognizable anywhere so they go to Horizon where Shepard isn't particularly known. Hope was specific in her demands. The clone was meant to be Shepard's personal chop shop. They didn't want to spend money on her. Hope's grateful now. The less implants, the better.

She's careful. She's seen what Cerberus has been playing with and she doesn't like the direction they're going in. You get enough implants and you're not even human anymore. Hope doesn't like the Illusive Man's eyes. He's halfway to being a husk in a suit now.

Hope never met the 'real' Shepard, despite creating the dossiers to help her stop the Collectors. The clone barely knows how to speak and for the first few days pisses and shits itself. It holds utensils awkwardly like a toddler, food spilling from the corners of its mouth, choking on food that isn't cut into small pieces. Hope's afraid she got some mentally challenged version of the Shepard Miranda Lawson created. She never wanted children and now she has to read books on potty training when '_j__ust go to the bathroom and take a shit', _doesn't suffice.

The clone eventually gets the hang of it and Hope is glad to not have to rip the soiled clothing from it anymore and throw it into the shower to hose it down. Something like shame touched the clone's features and Hope remembered it, the hot water spraying down on the clone, some of it spitting onto Hope herself. Slowly but surely the clone is learning to make expressions. Hope smiles faintly. "I've seen you at your worst. Shit washes off."

The clone stares at the wall, body going red with the scalding water. It's alive. It's really alive. Her own Frankenstein. The kind that will put humanity first and save the world.

* * *

The clone is clingy. It becomes accustomed to Hope's voice and follows her around like a baby duck. Hope doesn't grin but she does bear it, feeding it enough so it will keep its musculature as best as it can. There's no doubt that it will lose the hardness of its limbs and torso, that the strength will slowly dwindle if Hope doesn't get it on some kind of regimen, soon.

Yet the clone is lethargic and ambles more than walks. Hope has to remind herself that this _is_ Shepard. Hope has even more safehouses than she has names but she's vigilant, keeping the lights dimmed and windows closed, keeping an eye on all communications, moving as soon as there is a hint that someone may be onto her, keeping still when she suspects it's a trap.

The clone wears jeans and an old Cerberus sweatshirt that Hope has torn the embroidery from. The clone plays with the loose threads absently but has little to say on their movements and how they spend their days. Hope spends her time managing details on the extranet while the clone watches Alliance recruitment ads on television.

"They got rid of your stock photo," Hope tells her but doesn't get any response except the clone turning her head to look at her, much the way a puppy will at a high pitched whistle in the distance. "Are you tired? I thought two years would be more than enough time," she says more to herself than the clone.

The clone, who sits on the floor despite the couch she rests against, stands and sits at the opposite end from Hope, pulling her legs up to herself. Hope stares at her before returning to her data pads. Eventually the clone lies down, her head nearly touching Hope's thigh. Hope makes a face, wondering for how long the thing will be useless and childlike.

The clone falls asleep, breathing softly. The room is cool but Hope doesn't bother getting her a blanket. The datapad slips unexpectedly from her lap and she picks it up. Not a moment later it falls again, along with a glass of water on the coffee table. She picks it up anew, irritated and pauses. Hope looks at the clone. Shepard is a biotic. There may have been some scrap of the real Shepard used for the clone. Was it an oversight from Dr. Wilson? Was it sabotage? It's certainly nothing Miranda would have let slip.

Hope is pleased that some latent biotic ability is presenting itself. Had it not, the clone would be a failure and not worth the considerable time she's spent on it. Her hand slips beneath the clone's hair and to the back of its neck. The clone makes a soft sound and Hope narrows her eyes, fingers continuing their search before she abandons the datapad and bends down, sweeping the brunette's hair away and gazing onto its bare neck. _"Shit."_

Jane Shepard is a goddamn _vanguard_. Stare as she might, she cannot make the biotic amp manifest on the clone's neck. She stands, infuriated. Goddamn it, Jones. Goddamn the cheap bastards for skipping on the necessities. What the hell is the use of a chop shop clone without the damned amp? The clone spent so much time on her back that Hope assumed the essentials would be taken care of, much like Miranda's copy.

The clone will have to get it implanted. It may even be necessary to have eezo fused to her nervous system. It will be an excruciating process. She wonders if clones feel pain. Hope disregards the thought. It doesn't matter what it feels.

* * *

They go to Illium. Hope knows it's dicey because everything is monitored. The planet is crawling with aliens, or floating, as it may be in the case of the enkindler-obsessed hanar. Worse yet, two of the individuals she drafted dossiers for: the justicar Samara and the assassin Thane Krios can be found here, as well as Liara T'Soni, some new and promising information broker since Shepard was blown to meat chunks in space. Hope cannot risk having the clone spotted ahead of schedule, without preparation. Nor can she risk running into Shepard and Miranda. She doubts Cerberus and Shepard are moving so quickly but time is of the essence and she has to take precautions.

She uses a holographic interface to mask the clone's features, turning her from a fit, olive toned woman to a pasty, freckled ginger with a square jaw and dark, red hair. Illium's tech scanners will pick up on it but it's common enough, especially given the murky but lucrative underbelly of the planet. It's almost to be expected. Hope has secured them both new identities with thorough if not tedious matching backgrounds.

The clone asks no questions. Its eyes drink in the sights, the color and the shine of Illium, the many alien species that prowl the busy hub. Hope smiles only enough to not be remembered as some scowling human. The asari are as arrogant and self-congratulating as Hope remembers, baring bright, and oft times seductive smiles.

"Keep moving," Hope tells the clone, pulling it after her when an asari tries to pull it aside and pitch a deal. "We still have a lot to see," she tells her lightly, releasing her arm. The clone looks at her curiously, unaccustomed, Hope suspects, to not hearing her speak in her natural accent.

The clone follows her diligently, never complaining. Hope hasn't familiarized herself with its voice yet as it rarely speaks. It does understand, however. It responds to her simple commands wordlessly. It's like dragging along a human woman-shaped lamp.

Eventually they reach their destination: the Dantius Corporation labs. Hope doesn't like using asari means but they are qualified to get the job done and to do it well. The Alliance and humans track biotics and amp implants too closely. Usually Cerberus would be the ticket but they're no longer an option. She knows the Illusive Man has already begun looking for her and the clone. The man is notorious for his obsession to detail—an obsession that has served him well. Hopefully the real Shepard will be enough of a distraction to give her and the clone a little breathing room.

Hope downloaded a mine of data before leaving the Cerberus lab and is happy she underplayed her capabilities when joining the organization. It made taking what she wanted easy. In the past week she has spent every breathing moment combing through the endless data, finding all the necessary details, needing everything to be just right. The clone needs to have the exact biotic amp that Shepard has and Hope has endeavored that she gets it.

The asari at reception tries to talk her into an asari brand top of the line model, sensing that she's the one with the creds and completely disregarding the clone. Maybe she thinks the clone is some legal slave, bought by the fine print of a contract. "Don't peddle your product to me," Hope says, glancing at the datapad she's been given with the asari amp specs. It's more powerful, no question but she can't take chances. Everything has to be exactly the same. The clone was fed eezo gel during her creation and there's enough there, the records tell her, for it to have fused to her nervous system. All she needs is the amp. Hope will go into the records later and make the appropriate modifications to reflect the clone's data. Biotic amps are branded with serial numbers; they can only ever belong to one individual. The digital age, at least, makes some fabrications easier. "I've forwarded you the necessary specifications and transferred a considerable deposit. Are you ready to operate or not?"

The asari's smile tightens. "Of course," she says thinly, "right this way."

They're led to a sterile, white room with an operating table and a medical robe and told that the surgeons will be in shortly. The receptionist quickly escapes and Hope is happy to be rid of her. The clone stands helplessly in the room.

"You'll have to strip," Hope tells the clone. The clone strips and Hope watches her with wry amusement, unused to the paler creature she is currently masquerading as: Jill Jones. Hope couldn't think of a plainer name.

The clone watches her and Hope can't attribute the hesitancy in her expression as belonging to her or the hologram. Hope looks forward to when they won't need it. "Your voice is different," it tells her softly.

Hope smiles wryly. "Are you nervous?" The clone steps out of its clothing. Hope takes them and folds them carefully, watching the strange naked form, thinner than the muscular Shepard. She brings the medical robe to her. "This will be a lengthy operation." The clone searches her face. "It won't hurt." It will hurt. It will feel as if its brain and skull are being torn open. But the clone has to learn that life is full of deception, that pain can come unexpectedly and the expectation will be to move on from it. "I won't let anything happen to you." That part is true. Her eyes drop to the sidearm strapped to her thigh. The clone's breathing rises and falls steadily. Hope touches a hand lightly to its chest. The clone looks down at it. "I promise you that this is necessary."

The clone nods and two asari doctors enter. Hope changes into the scrubs she requested, paying no attention to how the women look at her. She has no modesty. When she's finished she sets her eyes on the asari doctors and smiles. "Let's see if you're half as good as you say you are." She'll be watching. If they aren't, if they screw up one small thing, they'll get a bullet in the back of their weird, tentacled heads. But even that won't ease the rage she'll feel to have humanity's greatest chance for victory over the Reapers, be lost.

* * *

It takes weeks for the clone to recover. Hope denies it any medication or medi-gel. If it can't survive the exquisite pain of the surgery, it'll stand no chance in battle facing Reaper forces, those Collector things and taking on the great Commander Shepard.

At first it mewls pitifully. The most irritating thing outside having to spend time listening to all-too celebratory asari on a successful operation, is having to listen to the clone's agonized cries and see its face pathetically stained with tears. The oddly shaved spot at the back of her head is mildly amusing though Hope will be happy to have the hair grow back and cover the ugly mess of scars that zig zag through the back of the clone's skull.

Hope makes it meals and gives it vitamin supplements. Eventually the clone learns it won't get any sympathy from her and its sad cries die down. Hope tries to give her datapads to read but the clone ignores them, at times hurling them across the room when Hope sets them into her lap.

That's the way with newly amped biotics. They don't really know what they're doing. Hope has abandoned the notion of keeping any glassware or ceramic intact. She can only hope that all its reckless noise will not be enough to draw the attention of any passerby.

The clone throws objects around when she's asleep, which really pisses Hope off. One morning she wakes to a knife lodged neatly into her pillow, blade pointed at her neck. The clone sleeps fitfully at her feet, like a dog. Hope supposes the thing is a bit like her bitch, isn't it? She avoids taking a datapad and hitting her over the head with it.

She's been keeping track of Shepard's movements. The return of the hero Spectre is enough to have everyone's eyes peeled. Simple searches on the extranet have forums flooded with sightings of Jane Shepard. Some sightings are clearly made up, others, like those of her on the Citadel are more concrete. She looks to her eyes and ears (for a price) to really keep her updated on Shepard's progress. Hope tells herself there's still time.

The weather is bleak as if to make their situation the more bothersome. Rain falls in torrents, drumming against the ceiling, walls and windows. It confuses the clone at first who looks around wildly before trying desperately to stare out the windows. _Get away from there. Don't let the pretty façade fool you. Illium's no better than Omega._ Of course, the clone doesn't know what that is, either.

It watches television, sulking. Hope slaps the clone's wrists when it brings its hands to the back of its head to touch where it's been cut open. After enough slaps, the clone stops doing it. Hope rubs some moisturizing lotion onto the back of its head and it sighs softly, closing its eyes. "Looks like asari know more than just how to shake their ass on a stage," Hope tells the clone, crouching beside it on the couch. The clone turns its eyes toward her, hazel brown with slivers of green in it, framed by thick eyelashes. They are warmer than they should be. Its olive skin is smooth, chestnut hair falling in waves to her shoulders. "I'm happy you survived," she tells her with a smile. The asari are, too, she's sure.

The clone speaks in a hoarse whisper, unused to activity. "You said it wouldn't hurt. It hurts."

"I didn't want to scare you," she rises to her full height, looking at the ugly scars at the back of its head, to the ports on its neck surrounded by enflamed, red skin. "Living hurts. The sooner you get used to that the better off the two of us will be."

It lowers its head and Hope isn't sure if it's from the pain, her words, shame or disappointment. She doesn't ask because she doesn't care. She listens to her wheezy breaths and tucks a lock of hair behind its ear. The clone looks at her. "Go to sleep. We leave for Torfan in the morning."

* * *

The Shepard Memorial Flame doesn't elicit a response from the clone. Instead, it watches people mill around the flame, cluster together to take pictures and upload them to the extranet. Hope ties her hair up and wears large sunglasses, grateful the exceeding heat of the sun (despite being on a small moon) makes for a convenient excuse to hide her face.

The clone ties up what little of its hair it can and Hope is grateful to no longer have to stare at the back of its head. She's created another hologram for it, another plain Jane named Sheila Smith. She never bothers with alluring holograms (as many who use them do) the point being for the clone to disappear into obscurity and be completely forgettable when out in public.

There are batarian protestors corralled off to the side with protests signs. They are guarded by tense Alliance soldiers. The protests died down with Shepard's absence two years ago but now that she's back, protests have spiked. Batarians are not only a disgusting, unattractive race but they have little redeeming qualities, making their living on slavery and pirateering. Hope holds no ill will for Shepard's actions in Torfan in 2178. A dead batarian is a good batarian. She does take issue with how many of Shepard's unit she sent to their deaths. A bomb would have achieved the same with significantly less loss for humankind. It could have been written off as an accident and not made them look like the thugs of the galaxy.

Shepard is ruthless and she accomplishes her task. She leads. But does she lead well? Can't they do better than a sloppy tyrant? The shouts of human protestors, standing in solidarity with the batarians gets Hope's attention. There are families of the soldiers who died under Shepard's care, protesting. Hope doesn't think they really care that Shepard exterminated batarians who surrendered but she does pity them for the needless loss of their kin's lives.

The clone looks away from the admittedly unimpressive flame to look at a leaflet in her hand. Some batarian sympathizer must have shoved it into her hand. The clone's current plain Jane features twist into disquiet and deep sorrow. "This is terrible," it says.

Hope snatches the leaflet away from the clone and glances at it. It lists not only Commander Shepard's crimes but links humanity in with the rest of it, playing victim. There's no mention of the attack they initiated on Elysium, on what was known as the Skyllian Blitz. "Nice. But they fail to mention how they profit off enslaved humans they get from attacking defenseless civilian colonies. I imagine that makes their argument less convincing." She tears the leaflet in half and lets it fall to the ground, not caring that she's littering. She has no respect for Jane Shepard's legacy. What she needs is someone with her capabilities, someone who will start out fresh, who can be molded to represent the best of humanity, not some alien sympathizer who is content with letting humanity take a backseat to the rest of the galaxy. Hope remembers her initial surge of pride when she was made the first human Spectre. How things change.

Humanity needs Shepard's will, her fortitude, her talents for killing and when necessary, for charming and intimidation. Her reputation for getting the job done is a respectable asset but Hope draws lines. Humanity needs someone who will do the job well. Not someone stupid enough to get blown up rescuing crippled pilots.

The clone has the same DNA as Shepard. It _is_ Shepard. It has her face. That face will let her take her place. But it isn't enough. It needs Shepard's skills. They're somewhere, buried inside of it. Hope only has to jog that instinct within and bring it to the forefront. They have so much work to do, so much studying, so much training that even thinking about the colossal undertaking is near enough to make her want to quit.

The clone stares at the memorial flame before beginning a search on her omni-tool. Hope plants her hands on her hips, watching it search on the extranet. It had been a chore teaching the clone how to use the omni-tool but the small peace and quiet she had found after the fact had made it worthwhile. "Commander Shepard sounds like an awful person," the clone mutters, reading through a lengthy list of her accomplishments.

It stands stock still when an image of Jane Shepard comes up, wearing her N7 hardsuit, a shotgun in her arms, a cocky, daring grin on her lips. Hope wishes she could clear the crowds, see the clone's face, its real face, shift into… what is that? Wonder? Amazement? Horror? "That's Commander Shepard?" it asks breathlessly. It looks at Hope as if it's been betrayed. It looks around desperately as if it were in quicksand.

Hope smiles. "And here I was hoping to keep it a surprise. Yes. That's Commander Shepard. And soon, there will only be one savior for humanity. The rightful Shepard." Hope's fingers glance along the back of its neck, feeling the goosebumps along its skin, the small thin hairs rising, the heat of where the biotic amp ports are buried. "You."


	2. Pupa

A/N: Thanks so much for the thoughtful reviews, everyone! Seriously, they're so appreciated. Moving right along here. Next chapter it's going to start being Maya/ Clone while simultaneously checking in with Shepard and the Normandy crew.

Massive, massive, massive thanks to the Allusive Man for being my creative consultant on this. This story would not be possible (or half as fleshed out) if not for him. He also edited the hell out of this and helped tremendously with all the biology/science technobabble. What a champ. Also, go read Hollow by him again. Seriously, it's fucking amazing.

* * *

The clone is obsessed. This isn't the usual brand of hero worship Hope is accustomed to seeing. It's something more. Night and day the clone searches the extranet, seeking details on Commander Jane Shepard. Hope lets it explore, wanting it, in some ways, to find its own path before she drops the massive quantity of data that she has on the commander in its lap.

The clone has a child's capacity for learning. It takes in knowledge like a sponge, ingesting it, before quickly growing hungry again and searching for more. It reads constantly and Hope discovers that it has 'discreetly' created a new massive folder, filled with images of the woman. It stops, in between reading Alliance News articles on Shepard, to open the folder and scroll through the images.

Sometimes it falls asleep on whatever their current kitchen table happens to be, in the midst of reading. Hope doesn't know if it's too stupid to rest when necessary or if it's pure excitement that forces the creature to keep going until it simply can't anymore. Hope shuts the computer and takes hold of its shoulder until it turns its shadowed eyes to her. "Off to bed. Now."

In the beginning the clone did so without question. Lately it stares at her. There is something bubbling beneath the surface. Hope furrows her eyebrows when it yawns. The small action, unseen before in the creature (partly due to how often it slept prior, like an infant) is jarring and unfamiliar. It wipes at its eyes, stands and moves past her, moving to the bedroom and collapsing on its side.

It no longer sleeps at her feet like a pet, choosing instead to sleep at Hope's side. Hope can't decide whether this is a mark of progress or if she needs to be more careful moving forward.

* * *

Hope finds the clone in the bathroom in the middle of the night, the door cracked open just enough for her to see. A laptop rests on the bathroom sink, with several windows of Shepard's image opened. The clone looks from the computer screen to the mirror.

Hope watches it try to mimic the expressions on the screen. That's good of it. That's smart. Shepard's more than just a face. Shepard is movement, expression, a sauntering, predatory presence. Many of the pictures are infused with Shepard's custom arrogance. When she frowns she looks dangerous. When she smiles, it's a scornful invitation.

Try as it might, the clone cannot manage the expressions. It tries over and over again and fails. Hope wonders if it needs to experience the emotions to be able to duplicate the appropriate faces. The clone lowers its chin, thoughtful and sad when it catches Hope's reflection in the mirror and slams the door shut.

Hope's startled by the act of defiance. It is the first time that it has acted against her. Is it embarrassed? Hope leans against the doorway and waits. She waits in silence for half an hour but the clone doesn't emerge.

Hope decides to prepare the necessary nutritional regimen the clone needs. She stole a good number of supplies from the Cerberus lab before leaving, those necessary to keep it strong and primed for dominance. She loads the chamber of the injection gun with the appropriate medication and hormones and waits in the living room, reading about the disappearing human colonies, baffled at the Alliance's inability and unwillingness to do anything about it.

Minutes later the clone emerges. It sets the laptop down on the coffee table and sits beside her, burying its hands in its hair, taking slow and labored breaths. The creature is upset. "You don't have to keep secrets from me," Hope tells it. Why did the clone choose to undertake the study in private? Was it meant to be a surprise? Or has the obsession move to regrettable hero worship after all? The clone lowers its hands, elbows resting on its knees, leaning forward.

Hope sweeps the hair back from its neck. She doesn't ask, she merely brings the injection gun to the clone's neck and pulls the trigger once it's lined over its vein. The clone doesn't gasp but its expression twitches. Hope brings her fingers to the neck to massage the medicine in and reduce any minute pain it may feel later on.

"I don't look like her."

"Don't be daft. You're identical. The rest will come in time." Hopefully not too much more time.

The clone appears unsatisfied. "Why do I look like her?" It asks. Hope extends three large gel caps and a glass of water. "Are we sisters?" It muses. "Are we twins?"

Hope had not planned on a philosophical debate on what it was. Not yet. Anyway, it's too young to know the answers. The creature must be hardened before it finds out that it was created to be spare parts for a hero Spectre. If it develops properly it will ask the necessary questions and Hope will have to tell it. The matter will be delicate. It's not every day you learn that you are only meant as a patch up for the real thing. "Take this and drink it."

"Is Hannah Shepard my mother?"

"Drink," Hope instructs severely. The clone resentfully snatches the pills from her hand, taking them and swallowing them down with the water. It stands and paces. The creature is becoming restless. That's good. It will become more defiant but it will be more than a lump of flesh.

"What are these for?" It asks. "Why do I have to take them? Why do you pump me with whatever it is you're pumping me with?"

It sets its hazel eyes on her. They're greener, Hope thinks, when it's angry. "It's to keep you healthy and make you strong. It may not all make sense right now but it will." The clone glares at her. "Sit down." The clone doesn't. "Sit." Hope says, her voice harder still. It doesn't respond. The room is shaking, frames on the walls rattling, items on surfaces shifting. There is a blue aura to the clone. In this state, it's dangerous. Hope reaches out, her fingers brushing along its wrist. "Sit," she says again.

The clone sits. It looks helplessly at her, its eyes gleaming. Is it sad? Is it frustrated? Is it angry? "You said I'm supposed to replace her. I don't even know how to fight." Emotion chokes her voice. Hope blinks at it. "I want to learn. I want to train. But I'll never be an N7."

No. It won't. Not in the same way. That time in Shepard's life is over. Hope is still sure that those instincts are buried within the clone. They only need to find the necessary triggers to bring them to the surface. Shepard is a creature of instinct, not of thought, not of precision; she is a spark that ignites a blaze that causes incomprehensible damage. "You'll learn. You'll train. You'll become strong. And then you'll kill her. Is that understood?"

The clone doesn't look at her, hands clasped nervously in front of it. "I don't want to kill anyone."

Hope swears. It takes everything she has to not strike it. Whatever bloodlust Shepard has, she prays it's only lying dormant. If it's missing, if it will never manifest, then there really is nothing left to hope for.

* * *

They're buried in the Terminus Systems, deep in the Omega Nebula. Hope has hired one of the rare pilots who is willing to take a small ship into an area fraught with piracy and civil wars. It came at a cost, but she has means. Sophisticated credit-skimming software, designed by herself and imbedded on key systems throughout the galaxy, ensures a steady flow of money into a variety of accounts. Her parents didn't raise her to be a thief—they didn't raise her at all.

Beside her, the clone sits in a bucket seat. It wears a hardsuit and a helmet, its arms crossed and head tilted back. It knows little of the dangers of the Terminus Systems, despite Hope's explanations. It only knows that there is another operation in store and nothing is expected of it except to present itself.

An N7 Crusader shotgun sits in the seat between them. Hope prefers the satisfaction of a well-placed sniper shot or the intimate and personal nature of pressing a barrel to the back of someone's head. There is an art to that. Shotguns are different, vicious, more honest somehow. Necessary for the worst-case scenarios when things have turned to shit. She has walked through mists of blood before. Despite being prepared for the eventuality, it is not how she would prefer things to go down.

Hope opens the black box that sits on her lap. The clone turns its head to look. At first glance it would seem like nothing remarkable. An iridescent blue orb, no bigger than a marble. Graybox technology has come far since its invention in 2160. It's not even a graybox anymore, despite using its properties as a foundation. The technology is so new it doesn't even have a name. Miranda Lawson is clever. After the clone has killed Shepard, Hope might send Miranda her regards and thanks for the brilliant schematic she provided—a schematic that Mr. Illusive refused to let her use. Not that Miranda gave it to her. Not that she ever would. Hope had to take it, unasked. That's the way of this world with the things you want.

* * *

The lab ship hangs like a rusted iron coffin in a black sea of stars. They dock, the pilot getting the shuttle some meaningful distance away, awaiting Hope's orders for pick up. The air is thin and cold, somehow humid and sticky as well. The clone removes its helmet and looks around the long, shadowed corridors with flickering lights.

"Down the hall and to the left. Third door on the right," comes a voice over the intercom, a voice that is either made shrill by nature or the aging intercom technology. It must be Dr. Ward.

Hope cast a wide net to track down a suitable party to perform the operation. It's illegal, of course. The Council and Alliance like to patent any technology that will give any one species that isn't their own an advantage. They'll talk about the dangers but that's never really mattered to them. What matters are results, what matters is staying on top of the game. Illegal or not that's exactly what Hope aims to do.

Half of the technology utilized by the known universe is never used in the way it was intended. Grayboxes were meant to help alzheimers patients but instead became a go-to for spies and thieves. This advance is intended for those with brain damage (as Miranda feared Shepard would have), but it could be used to give infants of affluent parents a remarkable edge in their academic careers. It's a little like cheating—but cheaters do prosper and the clone needs even footing. It doesn't have the memories of its transformative years, of its academic career. Never mind the fact that Shepard was a relatively average student.

A shout comes from an unidentifiable location. Hope lifts the shotgun into position and smiles at the clone when she sees the worry on its face. Dr. Thomas Ward has a bit of a reputation. Brilliant and mad, he has a propensity for not only illegal experiments but also highly unethical, cruel ones. Cerberus had him in their sights but deemed him too unreliable, too self-involved to play by the rules in one of their labs.

The clone and Hope move through the ship. It creaks and groans. They pass foggy, dirty windows smeared with patches of red and handprints. Further along they see (when the lights decide to kick in) drags of blood along the walls, seeping beneath doors and the unquestionable sounds of screams, of fists banging against walls, crying. Somewhere, a woman giggles incessantly, the mirthless sound echoing through the ventilation system.

The clone looks more unsettled by the moment. "What is this place?" It asks. Hope keeps moving without responding. It goes to one of the windows to peer into the room. It looks for a way of entry and Hope is glad it doesn't find it. "We should help them."

"No. We're only here for one reason. We are not to interfere. Nod and tell me you understand." Hope looks at the clone who stares back at her, conflicted. "They're being taken care of. I promise. I know how it looks—but if it weren't for people like Dr. Ward, you wouldn't be here. Now let's move."

It reluctantly follows. They turn left and arrive at the third door on the right. The motion detectors pick them up and the door grinds open. There is a medical chair that was clearly cushioned with green leather once and is now torn in places and stained with crimson splashes in others. A harsh yellow light shines on it. The clone takes a step back but Hope taps its arm gently with the Crusader and it learns to stay still.

"Dr. Thomas Ward," Hope says. The man has their back to them, looking thin in a lab coat that is far too large. The scarecrow of a man turns. He's tall with sallow cheeks, thinning hair and a widow's peak. His smile stretches far and his yellowed, horse's teeth become an afterthought after Hope catches the pulsing nature of his eyes. The man has changed considerably from the picture she last saw of him. Who knows what work he's done on himself. It's been years. Further time for him to drown in madness. Hope begins to doubt her resolve. He comes over and outstretches a hand that she ignores. "Your ship is in shambles." She looks around the room. It looks clean, at least, despite the bloodstains. "Forget to make a power payment?"

"It's difficult to get repairs taken care of," he admits with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I've allocated the remaining power to where it's needed. Let me see it." He demands. Hope holds on to the box. He looks at her impatiently and then at the clone, staring at it for a moment before turning its eyes greedily to the box. "You said the schematic would be mine," it sounds like a complaint.

"It will. If the surgery is performed to specification." There's a beat. "You've received the payment."

"I don't care about the payment."

It is a rare man that doesn't care about credits. It's useful but also makes him dangerous. Hope is relieved, at least, that he doesn't appear to care for the clone, that he doesn't ask questions, that he is instead, motivated by technology. "I've heard you can take care of anything. This…creature," she says with a sidelong smile to the clone, "is important to me. If anything goes wrong—"

"Nothing will go wrong," he snaps at her. "You. Sit." He points the clone at the chair. He scowls but the clone doesn't move. In a flurry of motion he moves away, looking through cabinets and medical trays.

The clone stands anxiously. No doubt watching sci-fi horror vids on television has given it all the right ideas on why it should be skeptical. But this is not the time for skepticism and hesitation. "You need this," Hope tells it. "It won't be as difficult as the last operation."

"I don't like him," the clone whispers.

"I don't care." Hope takes a moment when she sees how stung the stupid thing is by her words. Sensitive. It's far too sensitive. "Dr. Ward, care to explain the recovery process to our dear patient?"

"The recovery process will be swift," he lifts a drill, giving the thin bit a few test spins. "The operation is simple. Drill this into your skull and then use," he lifts a syringe with a needle that's several inches long, "to do the injection. It's never been done before," he admits almost bashfully, "that's why Ms. Kreuger came to me." The clone blinks at the name and Hope smiles in response. "Recovery will take a week. Nausea, vertigo, disorientation, exhaustion are the likely side effects. You'll live."

"It had better," Hope says sharply.

The clone looks at her. Hope gives Dr. Ward the box with the device and pushes the clone towards the chair. She doesn't want to see that stupid look of fear in its eyes.

* * *

It's been three days since the operation.

The clone alternates between stooping in front of the toilet like a drooping flower, voiding itself of the little food it manages to ingest and curling up on the couch, sleeping fitfully. It's near impossible for it to keep its eyes open and walking has become an adventure. Hope has cleared a path for it from the living room to the bedroom to the bathroom, hoping to stop the clone's violent careening into furniture, walls and to the floor.

Hope continues to give it its regimen of vitamins and injections. They will stop once and _if_ it starts a training regimen. This is only to keep her in optimal condition. The clone will have Commander Shepard's strength even if it lacks her fighting finesse. That will do for the time being.

She brings it tea and drinks and foods rich in electrolytes. The clone will puke them up but its system will absorb some of them before then. It won't last long either way. The clone eats and drinks, fingers grasping at its forehead and with every passing moment, Hope can see something changing in its eyes, there is an intelligence brimming, its eyes shifting from foggy to sharp and clear.

It complains little, which Hope is grateful for. The clone makes a reference to Beethoven and Mozart some hours after the operation, its voice hazy and curious. The procedure is working as expected then, conferring a doctorate level education in multiple fields of study. It will take time for the necessary synaptic connections to be formed and the reservoir of knowledge to be assimilated, but the process has begun.

As a reward, Hope secures it a tangible music player with quality headphones, loaded with the most esteemed classical music. She sets it beside the clone, who opens its eyes cautiously when it feels Hope's touch along its face and hair. "I have a few errands to run but I wanted to give this to you first."

The clone sets its eyes on her. They are dark, its face pale, dots of burst, tiny veins dotting her cheeks and nose from the constant vomiting. It looks at the device and back at her before sitting up. Hope brings the headphones over its ears and turns it on, starting Ode to Joy. The clone's eyes light up. Hope smiles without meaning to. "Why?" it asks.

"These past few weeks haven't been easy," she says lightly. "I know I seem hard. I only want you prepared. You haven't been in this world long. You haven't learned that the enemy will strike when you're at your worst. I have many enemies." There's a beat. "Would you like me to pick anything up?"

The clone shakes its head. Hope stands. Before she can move on, it takes her wrist. "Thank you," it says weakly.

Hope looks at it and pulls her wrist free. "Get some rest."

She exits the safehouse, nestled in one of the Omega slums filled to the brim with the most despicable low-lifes the station has to offer. Hope was careful to go to a human sector, not one infected with Vorcha and Batarians, not one that is close to Mordin Solus or "Archangel". They don't stand out here though Hope is careful to not walk too tall, too proud. She knows she must look as broken as the rest of the degenerates to truly fit in.

She takes a cab to a restaurant district, one of the finer ones and orders a steak and a glass of red wine. She speaks to the manager and asks to use his phone to make a call. His eyes drink her in lecherously but he acquiesces and gives her a moment of privacy. She thanks him and closes the door. She dials the number. "This is Carter. You're clear to proceed. Kill her and you'll get the rest of your credits. I don't care how you do it; just get it done. You have an hour." She hangs up the phone.

Hope leans into the desk and inhales slowly. She closes her eyes and exhales. She tells herself this is necessary. Then she exits, happy that she's returned at her table just in time for the wine.

* * *

The clone's throat is raw from throwing up, its face taking on an alarming numbness, despite how it burns. The dull pain at the back of its head is a blessing compared to the first operation it had to endure. Instead, the clone feels a dull throbbing at the base of its skull, beating in time with its heart.

The vertigo and exhaustion are another beast altogether. The clone has difficulty standing straight and moves along the apartment on shaky legs, fingers trailing along the walls, providing a sight and balance that it does not currently possess. Every step is an unmapped journey, leaving the clone floundering.

It makes its way back to the bedroom and collapses face down on the bed. _She_ isn't here but _She_ gave it something. The clone has never received anything save for a legacy it isn't sure it wants. The pillows and sheets smell of _Her_ and _Her_ perfume and the scent of _Her_ skin. Who is _She_? She of the Many Names.

The clone feels lost without _Her_. And tired. Fatigue weighs heavily upon it, the sensation similar to when it first discovered Commander Jane Shepard and took to the task of unearthing everything about the woman, to reading up on every shred of her existence.

Facts manifest in its mind, hazy like fog. Everything is on the tip of its tongue, the tip of knowing. The clone is standing on a precipice, obscure knowledge presenting itself tauntingly only to disappear and come back more brightly. It knows now about quarian cuisine but isn't sure what a quarian is. _She_ assures her that Shepard is friendly with one.

This is the first time it has been separated from _Her_. It does not like the feeling; abandonment fills it like a vacuum. It takes hold of the headphones presented earlier and slips them onto its head, closing its eyes. It doesn't know what it's doing. _She_ never explains much of anything. It hopes that it isn't disappointing _Her_. Sometimes _She_ looks at it with such hope and promise. Other times _She_ looks frightening, _She_ looks as if _She _wants to bury it.

The music blooms on the headphones. The clone has never heard anything so beautiful, so melodic. The music moves it in a way it hadn't thought possible. There is a sensation that is far above anything it has experienced. It makes the clone feel…peculiar. Joyous…? The clone doesn't think _She_ would like that word.

The music swells and dives. It hears what sounds like a door opening in the distance. Has _She_ returned? _She_ has given so many aliases that the clone isn't sure which one is real. It isn't sure it knows anything about _Her_. Should it worry it? It isn't sure. Only recently has it learned what worry is, has learned what worry feels like. It is… an unfavorable feeling.

The clone sighs softly and stands. It ought to greet _Her_. One step and then another. The process is difficult. The recovery is only meant to take a week and the clone hopes that it will take no longer. It has seemingly awoken only to endure pain.

It sees a shadow and the clone turns its head quickly, rewarded only with a flash of color as everything seems to move in slow motion.

"Visual," comes a gruff, gravelly voice. There's one heavy footstep and then another. Something isn't right. There is gleaming blue armor with a splash of white. The clone doesn't recognize what the thing in front of her is. It has read about dinosaurs. It has read about birds. It has not seen whatever this creature is.

A datum emerges from the fog. Turian. It's a turian.

"This is the hit?" The other thing has four eyes and razor sharp teeth, also clad in blue armor. Like the things in Torfan. Batarian. "With all the credits we're being paid I thought this would be tough."

They both lift their guns at the same time. Eyes widening, the clone lifts its arms at the same time they pull the trigger. The sound is deafening. It's ears ring.

"Shit! A biotic!" The turian says, "shoot her!"

They called it 'her'. Is it more than an 'it'? Is it also a 'her'?

The clone bolts, tripping over its own feet, landing behind the couch, unsure of how it still lives, unsure of what that pulse of energy just now was, only knowing that it feels further worn because of it.

"Come out, bitch," the batarian reaches a hand behind the couch, grabbing a fistful of its hair and lifting the clone to its feet. The clone doesn't have a chance to say anything before the batarian rams 'her' head into the wall. Numbing, crippling pain flares throughout its forehead. Everything's blurry.

The clone instinctively throws its elbow back and feels it connect with something, hears the howl of the batarian. Its heart hammers rapidly. There is ice in 'her' gut, sweat on 'her' skin. It's difficult to breathe and there is an overwhelming desire to run, run, run so it stumbles to the bedroom and shuts the door. It's barely out of the way when bullets punch through, leaving black, clean marks.

The turian kicks the door open. The clone's screams are cut short by a vicious fist to the face. Blood sprays from its mouth, hitting the sheets on the bed. _She_ wouldn't like that, it thinks. The left side of its face is numb and throbbing.

It doesn't hurt as much as the operation. Suddenly, the clone's grateful that _She_ never gave it medicine, that _She_ made it endure.

The wind is knocked out of it when the turian's foot connects with its stomach, dropping the clone to her hands and knees.

"Who are you?" The clone demands, wheezing in between words, not sure if its sweat or tears running down its face. "I haven't done any—" The turian cracks his knee into its face. A fountain of blood sprays out and the clone coughs.

"What are you doing?" The batarian asks, looking bored.

"You know those things humans keep as pets? Cats? They play with birds and rats once they've caught them."

"You're the fucking bird," the batarian says. "We've got an hour."

The turian's mouth flaps. The clone doesn't know if the turian is smiling or irritated. "It's been five minutes," the turian says. "Looks kind of like that dead Spectre, doesn't she?" Is it also a 'she'? "Think Aria would pay for her?"

"That cheap bitch?" The batarian laughs. The clone glares at them. It tries to get to its feet but the batarian smiles, bringing the butt of the gun violently against its forehead. The clone crashes back onto the bed and breathes raggedly. The batarian squares its shoulders and lifts the gun. "Let's finish her off. We get paid by the job, not by the hour."

Its finger is squeezing on the trigger when the clone rolls to the side. A spray of bullet tears into the bed and the turian laughs. "Oh, this is going to be fu—" He goes flying back, untouched, crashing into the wall. He stills, stunned before shaking his head, setting its beady green eyes on the clone. "Kill her! Kill her, kill her, kill her!"

As the batarian lifts the assault rifle once again, the clone makes a tugging motion. There's nowhere left to run, but 'she' will not die before finding out what 'she' is. What _Her_ name is. The batarian looks dumbfounded as his rifle is torn away from him, flying through the air and into 'her' hands. The clone looks down at it, not sure how to use it, not sure how 'she' got it.

_biotics_

only knowing that it is a weapon and it can be used. But the clone isn't sure that it wants to—the batarian rushes the clone and its finger finds the trigger and pulls. It's hard to pull on it and the clone isn't expecting the kick. The shots fire wild, grazing only the batarian's armor but hitting the turian in the neck. It makes disturbing, gurgling noises and the clone goes dizzy with guilt—

The assault rifle slips from its hands and clatters to the floor. The batarian swings his massive arm but the clone lifts hers and blocks the punch, spinning off to the side. 'She' is surprised by its own gracefulness but the moment doesn't last long. The batarian wraps a brutal hand around the clone's neck, slamming 'her' into the wall once, twice, making the room spin. It's already so tired.

The clone tries to remove the hands from 'her' throat, but cannot. The batarian is angry about its dead turian friend, its mouth is wet and slimy, his stench like a dense wall. The clone whips a hand up, digging 'her' pointed fingers into one of the batarian's eyes. The batarian screams and the clone uses the opportunity to slip away, instinctively grabbing the assault rifle as 'she' exits the room. Stumbling, 'she' falls to her knees in the living room.

It's battling gravity and losing. Get to your feet, get to your feet, get to your feet. If occurs to the clone that if it loses this fight, it will not see _Her_ again. It seems a more terrible fate than death itself. The batarian charges out of the room, bleeding goop from its lost eye. It's strong, and 'she' can only manage a small cry before the batarian has picked 'her' up, hurling 'her' over the couch. The clone crashes brutally, smashing the glass coffee table.

Everything is blinding and whirling, sharp pain shoots up the clone's back and 'she' feels nauseous and wants _Her_ and doesn't know why this is happening. The assault rifle is some inches away and the clone grabs it just as the batarian hops over the couch. It's luck, the clone thinks, that the timing of the swing allows the assault rifle to smash ferociously into the batarian's temple. The batarian groans, grabbing its head as the clone pushes to its feet, pushes him somehow, without making contact.

The batarian skids across the floor and the clone mounts him and screams, bringing the butt of the gun down on its head once and then over and over again, listening to the cracking sounds, being splashed by the viscous substance that oozes out of the batarian until the clone's throat burns and it can barely make sound. The batarian has stopped moving. She isn't sure when he stilled.

The apartment is a disaster. The clone looks at the dead batarian in terror, crawling away from him, vomiting once more on the side of the couch, _like a cat_, and the clone isn't sure if it's from the revulsion coursing through her or from the recovery process of the most recent operation.

"That's why Torfan happened, you son-of-a-bitch," the clone spits but hates the words, not knowing if 'she' fully agrees with them. All 'she' has is anger and fear, blood and pain. Attempts to stand fail and all 'she' can do is cling to the couch, wanting to cry, wanting _Her_.

It sits for several minutes, disoriented and feeling sorry for itself. Facts clarify in its mind. Techniques for killing batarians and turians. Suddenly it's so clear when 'she' no longer needs the knowledge. The clone isn't sure 'she' wants to know how to kill but now understands the necessity.

Time passes. _She_ returns. The clone didn't hear, despite the broken glass, despite the disarray. _Her_ footsteps are silent. _She_ looks frightened and worried. _She_ kneels at the clone's side with great care, touches 'her' face delicately. The cool touch is soothing against 'her' pulsing, bleeding face. "I don't know why this happened," the clone says, happy that it stays any tears threatening to spill.

_She_ looks around, angry, disgusted, relieved. "You're human. That's all the reason they need," _She_ says. "What matters is that you're alive." _She_ wraps _Her_ arms around the clone, drawing it close. The clone inhales _Her_ fragrant scent. _She_ has never done this with it before. The clone has seen similar behaviors on television amongst friends, family, lovers. Is _She_ any of those? It's comforting. _Her_ voice is comforting. "I'm so glad you're all right. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."

The clone stares at _Her_ and is happy that _She_ wasn't here when the attack happened. It wants to cry. Maybe 'she' did earlier. "I need to know your name," it says raspily. _She_ is running her thumbs gently down 'her' cheeks. "Why don't I know your name?" It trembles.

It is with great care that _She_ helps the clone to its feet. "It didn't matter before." _She_ looks at it, different than usual and the clone momentarily forgets all the pain. "You can call me Hope."

Somehow, the name is fitting.

* * *

second A/N: Now that this chapter is over the weird pronouns will stop. Promise! 'The clone' will stick around for a bit longer, though. Thank you for your patience!


	3. Motherless

A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews! *_* I really appreciate the support- especially when it's a story I'm having a lot of fun with. Another massive round of thanks to the Allusive Man for continuing to be my creative consultant and editing this business. This chapter introduces one of the regulars who will be a major character in the story to come: Miranda (and Shepard). Liara will come much later but eventually she too will join in.

This is an M-rated chapter for 'adult content' and language. But mostly the first.

* * *

The clone's olive complexion is marred with a myriad of colorful bruises along her brow, neck, jaw and arms. Her stomach and ribs have been reduced to a purple, near black color from the merciless blows she suffered.

It suits her.

She is intact and scar free thanks to Hope's diligent medi-gel application. The days following the attempted hit, the clone's moods teeter. At times she is filled with profound sadness, lamenting, to Hope's irritation, the loss of life. Much preferred are the rare moments of white-hot anger, when her eyes burn green with hatred and contempt for her attackers. A trill of excitement races along Hope's body then: scraps of motherly-pride and unexpected arousal. In those rage-fueled moments, the clone is indistinguishable from Commander Shepard.

When the clone drifts off to sleep, Hope studies the footage gathered from the attack, gleaned from the omni-tools the attackers left on their corpses. The Blue Suns were vicious, true to their reputation. Hope is glad she went to them. It's remarkable that the clone survived. Hope would have no use for her if she hadn't.

Shepard is a master at hand-to-hand combat. Dissimilarly, the clone is sloppy in that regard. It didn't help that she was dizzy throughout. Hope watches the footage of the clone pinballing from wall to wall, struggling to stay upright. She does not strike wildly like Shepard. She is fluid. The few blows she lands appear to be a matter of precision, despite how she later describes the attack to Hope. She isn't bad, only untrained. Better yet, she appears to have a natural affinity for biotics, body pulsing with blue energy throughout the encounter in spite of never having learned. All in all, Hope is pleased. Now they can proceed to the second phase.

Since the graybox prototype injection, the clone has become more talkative. Topics range from music, to Shepard (most often it's Shepard) to dark energy theory. "Theory isn't enough," Hope tells her. "You need hands-on experience."

The clone is undeterred. She has a better grasp on the topic than Hope does, talking in detail about the scientific aspects and mathematical formulas that frankly bore her. The clone eats ravenously and sleeps extensively the days following the attack. It later explains, with some small hint of pride, that it is the expected result of her biotic use.

A week later she asks Hope to pay attention, unaware that Hope has been sharply focused on her since the attack. The clone takes Hope to the kitchen, grabbing three apples from a basket and throwing them up in the air. Hope waits for them to fall but they bobble, held in space by the clone who concentrates intensely, face radiant, despite the bruises, despite how she bites back any smiles.

Hope crosses her arms and smiles palely, barely suppressing her frustration. She knows how desperately the clone wants her approval. Clearly there remains work to be done.

The apples spin lazily in the air.

"At this rate you'll make fine entertainment at children's parties," Hope says coolly. The clone flicks her eyes away. "Do you think Shepard spends her time juggling? It's a nice trick but fundamentally useless." The apples crash to the floor, rolling in different directions. "Don't waste my time with this. Now pick up your mess." She exits the room. She has hurt the clone's feelings but doesn't care. It isn't her job to pamper her. It would be a disservice to pamper her. She will treat her whatever way is necessary to make her hard and inflexible as steel.

* * *

Jane Shepard's fingers are buried inside of Jack. The pit of engineering is cold as the grave but Jack is wet and hot, squeezing her digits tightly below, even as she digs her stubby fingernails into the back of her neck. Shepard gasps, the pain sharp and fresh but still not enough to offset the numbness she has felt since being brought back.

She doesn't like Jack. She doesn't like any of the assholes aboard Cerberus' version of the Normandy. Joker's the reason she fucking died to begin with. There's Garrus, of course. He's like a brother. A dinosaur-bird brother. But there's no Tali or Kaidan. There's no Liara. There's a rambling salarian who doesn't know when to shut the fuck up. A krogan dumber than Wrex was. A boy scout that makes Kaidan look like a party animal. There's an icy bitch that never lets off her ass.

Shepard thrusts her fingers more deeply inside the convict. Shepard's looked at her records; she's a real piece of shit with a mess of tattoos. The kid is young and broken. Cerberus did a number on her. She's probably seen more shit than Shepard has. Jack thinks she's invincible, which is no doubt the reason she allows an unemotional fuck like this, even if she doesn't run with the 'girl's club'. Shepard calls bullshit.

She promised Jack more Cerberus data as incentive. Trades are fair. Shepard isn't sure if there is more data to give away but if there is and it'll piss Miranda off, it's a win-win.

Where the _fuck_ is Liara? She was fuller than Jack. A woman. Not built like a boy with barely-there tits. She's all bone and edges. Shepard's fingers can find scars that the tattoos hide. Jack cries out, eyes fiery and disgusted on her. Shepard takes her face and turns it cruelly to the side. She doesn't want her eyes. She wants blue ones, clear and sweet on her. "Don't make a fucking sound," Shepard tells her.

Jack doesn't, face turned roughly away, chest heaving, body moving against her. Shepard buries her face in her neck but doesn't kiss her. Jack stiffens when she comes, clenching around Shepard's fingers before stilling. Shepard doesn't waste any time removing her fingers and the two of them stare at each other before Jack pushes her back and returns to the cot she'd been sitting at before Shepard visited.

"Thanks," Shepard says.

"Fuck off."

Shepard doesn't linger. She takes the clanking steps up, making sure to avoid the grating Donnelly and Daniels. Miranda asked to see her over an hour ago but Shepard doesn't want to give her the impression that she's in charge of anything because she isn't. She'll talk to her when and if she damn well chooses. The most urgent matter at the time is a pain that has been flaring beneath her flesh for weeks now.

It began as a tingle and has become a dull thrum. Now it feels as if there is lava burning under her skin. She takes the elevator to her cabin, her eyes skittishly touching on Liara's framed picture before entering the bathroom. In the darkness before the motion detectors pick her up, there is a bleeding, orange glow. Shepard washes the indiscretion from her hands, scrubbing until Jack's scent is gone.

She peers into the mirror, easing a lock of brown hair behind her ear. Her skin is coming apart, hot to the touch. She touches it experimentally, wondering if she's imagining the red sheen to her eyes.

What the fuck did Cerberus do to her?

* * *

The lab has long been overgrown with wild plants. Hope assures her they'll move along in another few days as the carnivorous plant life will consume the facility and them if they linger long. The clone doubted her at first, but with a little bit of digging she discovers that Hope is right and it's just the way of Pragia. She should have known better than to question her but is glad that she can. A twitching smile comes to Hope's lips when the clone pushes back against her.

Electricity remains functional though beakers litter counters, smashed into pieces. Tables are turned over and there are empty crates stacked along the walls. Whatever this lab was once, it no longer is and likely hasn't been for a very long time. The clone doesn't like it and has grown wary of these sorts of spaces.

Despite this, Hope seems in better spirits. She wears form-fitting pants, boots and a tanktop. She ties her hair up and assumes a fighting stance. "Let's see what you're made of." She smirks, as if a joke has been made. The clone stares at her arms, smaller than her own but defined. The tanktop clings to her, hugging her hips and breasts until the clone's mouth goes dry. "Have you given up already?"

The clone knows what she wants. She approaches cautiously, lifting her arms, rolling her fingers into fists. Hope smiles and a tremor moves over the clone, making her unsteady. The lab is chilly but Hope told her they would build up a sweat. "I don't want to hit you," the clone says.

Hope's eyebrows narrow and quick as a whip she pummels a fist into her face. The left side of the clone's face goes numb before it begins to throb. "Then lie down and let me beat you to death. Better yet, let me find another batarian and turian to do it for me." The clone's jaw hardens, her heartbeat jumping. Hope takes another swing and the clone jumps back, the edge of Hope's fist brushing along her nose.

"You wouldn't do that."

"I'd do anything to make you fight," she spins on her heel. The clone is ready to try to defend against a punch, instead, she gets a foot buried in her stomach, sending her stumbling several feet backward. The clone goes lightheaded. Biotic power is beginning to course through her. It is electric and hot. She takes a breath to steady herself, to bury it. Hope was clear that this was only meant to be an exercise in hand-to-hand combat.

"Not anything," the clone defends, unwilling to let Hope speak ill of herself. The ire in Hope's face grows and this time _She_ pursues her, full lips parting as if in anticipation. When Hope strikes, the clone is ready. It raises an arm, effectively blocking Hope from reaching her target. What she doesn't expect is another quick spin, for Hope's elbow to collide solidly with her face. The unexpected blow staggers the clone. The pain is blinding and she realizes too late, that it is a mistake to lower her arms for even a moment. Hope launches, jumping into the air.

A 540 roundhouse, the clone realizes.

The next instant she's sailing through the air, doing a 360 before crashing violently. Her neck aches horrifically. The clone wipes at her face, blood running down her mouth and nose. Hope follows, features dark, straddling her, taking a fistful of the grey Alliance shirt she has forced the clone to wear and yanking her to a sitting. The clone can't look at her. Hope's disappointment washes over her in waves and it makes her sick to her stomach. "I barely even tried," Hope growls, "and you didn't try at all. You're fucking lucky the men who went after you were incompetent. Maybe they should have finished a useless—"

Hope doesn't finish the sentence. She's sent hurling back several feet through the air. The clone pales. She shouts Hope's name, getting onto wobbly legs, out of breath and stumbling after her. Hope has pushed off the floor, kneeling by the time the clone reaches her. The clone notices, with horror, that she's split Hope's lower lip. Pained, she reaches out to touch it gingerly. Hope's hand snaps around the clone's wrist, squeezing tightly. "I'm sorry," the clone says, anguished. Hope said no biotics. Hope said no biotics and she blasted her back like a rag doll. What's worse is that she can't control it. What if she hurts her? What if she kills her? "I didn't mean to cheat," she says hoarsely.

A small smile pulls Hope's lips up. "That's more bloody like it."

* * *

Miranda Lawson has the niggling feeling that Commander Shepard may have been a mistake. The thought is so alarming that she tries to bury it under all of Shepard's positives: she is an incredibly capable fighter and she has inspired loyalty that borders on zealotry. Most importantly, she defeated a Reaper.

So far, Shepard has kept them alive (despite her recklessness in battle) and they've secured the first selection of squad mates. They've gone to Horizon, found and battled Collectors and come out on top. So why is she unsettled?

Shepard's antagonistic attitude may have something to do with it. Miranda never expected Shepard to play nice but her open hostility is troublesome. Time and time again she ignores any direction Miranda tries to provide, spitting and spiting all that could prove beneficial to squad and mission because it's coming from the mouth of the "Cerberus Cheerleader". Shepard's taken to Jack's mockery of her quite well, much to Miranda's consternation.

Frankly, Miranda has enough on her plate without having to worry about Shepard. And she does worry. EDI keeps an "eye" on everything but not only that; the ship has all-encompassing 24-hour surveillance. Miranda knows Shepard is fucking Jack. It surprised her for a number of reasons but Shepard is childish and the fact that Miranda abhors the woman is likely reason enough for Shepard. What's worse is that Shepard's spoon-feeding Jack classified Cerberus data. Cerberus' reputation is somewhat fragile—thanks to Shepard's efforts before she died to shed light on the black-ops group. To think of that lunatic Jack having access to it… And _why_ does Shepard give it to Jack? To fuck her? More likely it is to fuck Miranda and Cerberus.

Miranda had been under the impression that Shepard and Liara T'soni were an item— at least from the exchanges Miranda and the asari had previously, as well as Shepard's keen interest on all matters related to the woman. When Miranda refused to provide details on Liara's exact location, Shepard's discontent and contempt for her and Cerberus grew.

The woman is too focused on aliens. And her body is rejecting the implants. That is most worrisome of all. For two years Miranda slaved over the woman, working night and day, turning her from a pile of flesh and ground bone to a living, breathing being. It came at a cost, as these things do. It's more than the astronomical credits necessary to facilitate the project and bring her back. It was two years of Miranda's life and now her reputation is at risk. A lot of the implants are new, neural technology, highly experimental but with big pay offs. There was always the chance that Shepard would start to reject them. Miranda just never expected the process would begin so quickly.

If she had been allowed to implant her with the control chip things might be different. For example, she thinks bitterly, Shepard would agree to help her get Oriana to safety before her father snared her in his clutches. Instead, Shepard blew her off, stating there were other, more important things to do.

Currently those things include getting hammered at Purgatory and blowing through credits on asari strippers. Miranda's disdain grows. She has long been searching for the confidence the Alliance and the Illusive Man have in Shepard. It had been a bitter pill to swallow but she discarded her pride and asked not once, but twice for Shepard's aid. The Illusive Man refused her request to go on her own, stating that she was 'too valuable' to risk, reminding her where her loyalties and obligations lie. Despite her status and gifts she is only a pawn to be used to achieve others means. In some ways, it is a feeling she has been trying to outrun for the majority of her life.

It is rare that Miranda gets angry. Anger is a waste of time; it's better to put your mind to practical solutions. She knows that but can't help the anger. For two years she dedicated her life to bringing Shepard back. She averaged two to three hours of sleep a night during that time and despite her talents, it began to wear at her. She took some of it out on Wilson, much to his irritation. At least that bastard has been taken care of.

It's a pity the Lazarus Project facility was destroyed. She would have liked to search Wilson's records, see what other subterfuge the man was operating. He had a hand in working with the clones the Illusive Man insisted be created. Many of them didn't survive, lungs and hearts not developing properly, others brains never growing. The creation of life is a difficult science. In a way, she can grudgingly understand her father's obsession with both her and Oriana, despite the disgust she experiences.

Her work on the clones was limited. She was the head of the Lazarus Project and despite what she would have once described as the Illusive Man's over-cautiousness for what Shepard might 'need' if her work failed, she was sure that there would be no need for the clones, that Shepard would be brought back exactly as she had been. Failure was not an option and while yes, Miranda has made mistakes in the past, she has never _failed_.

Confident, she allowed Wilson and Jones to oversee most of the clone work, provided that they keep her up to date on any developments. When there were developments, they were bad. Miranda wasn't surprised, given the project leads. If they expected any criticism they were disappointed. Miranda only instructed that they keep working— happy they were not interfering with her own work. Truthfully, she was somewhat grateful to them. The clone project reminded her too much of her father's. Motherless creatures built from pieces of an original, designed for excellence, for the most part discarded when they ended in failure. Hadn't Miranda made sure Shepard came back the right way? There are no deformities, the organs are in perfect condition, but the woman couldn't care less. Shepard owes her but isn't interested in paying her debts.

No matter. Miranda knows where she is and walks through Omega, her destination: Afterlife. No matter the difficulties in her life, she has always been persuasive. She'll use a gun to get what she needs—but it's rare that she has to do anything more than talk to get what she wants.

She ignores the salarians and turians scattered around, smiling palely to herself at the elcor who refuses many of the zealous partiers eager to get into the club. The bass pounds through the metal floors, reverberating through her, rattling her heart. The lights flash brightly, massive screens showcasing scantily clad asari maidens that writhe and dip along metal poles, skin glistening tantalizingly. A few of them set their sights on her but she isn't interested in them under normal circumstances. She's here for Shepard and no one else.

Miranda makes her way through the throngs of alien and human clubbers. A human male makes the mistake of grabbing her ass and without a glance backward she snaps his wrist, his howls of pain easily swallowed by the deafening music. Miranda spots Shepard sitting in a plush chair, an asari gyrating her hips slowly in front of her. Frowning, she goes to them. Shepard ignores her.

The asari has some resemblance to Liara T'Soni, her skin a pale blue hue, a splash of freckles dotting her cheeks. Her eyes, however, are innocent. Not like the shrewd, if not collected businesswoman Miranda met struggling to maintain her composure. "Shepard, we need to talk."

"Not right now, Miranda. Can't you see I'm busy?" Shepard picks up a tumbler glass beside her, a mixture of several colors. Miranda's frown deepens as Shepard takes a sip. What the hell is she drinking? A bit of everything? And if she burns a bloody hole through her stomach by ingesting something meant for turians and krogans, they'll have to track down a clone for a replacement.

"Leave us," Miranda tells the asari.

"No," Shepard says, grabbing hold of the asari's arm when she starts to go. Miranda's anger rolls over her but keeps her face composed. "I want you here all night." The asari hesitates but Shepard transfers credits over (the obscene sum comes up on Miranda's omni-tool) and the asari stays. "Take a hike, Miranda."

"You've wasted enough time on your hedonistic pursuits. I need to talk to you."

"Save your fancy words." She repositions herself on the seat, daring to bring her hands to the asari's hips. Shepard exhales slowly and even the asari dancer looks to be mesmerized by her. From the corner of her eye, Miranda can see a krogan bouncer to the left and three human ones to the right, watching keenly. "If this is about your sister, don't bother." Miranda's throat clenches. "I'll be honest with you, Miranda. I don't like you. I don't trust you. I don't trust Cerberus. You may have brought me back but this is _my_ operation and what I say goes. So fucking drop it," her fingers tease the shimmering, mauve undergarment the dancer wears.

"Shepard—" Miranda bites her tongue before she says something that will rub her the wrong way, that will turn Shepard entirely against her. She suspects that Shepard already is but knows that if that isn't the case now is the time to be cautious. "I know you don't like me and you don't trust me. I hope that in time we'll give you reason to change your mind but this isn't about me. This is about an innocent girl—"

"She's your twin, right? Which means she's older than _me_. If she's as perfect as you think you are she'll be able to handle an overbearing father."

The krogan and human bouncers are approaching. Miranda lowers herself, trying to keep her lip from twitching, fighting desperately to keep her voice even. "Damn it, Shepard, do you think I'd come to you for help if I thought she could handle it? Do you know how it kills me to ask?"

"Yeah," she grins, "I do."

"You _owe_ me," she says heatedly.

"I don't owe you shit." Her fingers glide down along the asari's thigh. "I don't give a fuck what the Illusive Man thinks about you. You were here to bring me back. And you have. _Thanks_. I figure I stop the Collectors and save the world, our debt's more than even. So if that's all for now…? _You_ should go."

Miranda steps back. The krogan and human bouncers have arrived, pulling the asari back from Shepard. Shepard stands. "Do we have a problem?" she asks, her smile casual, the skin around her eyebrow breaking open to reveal a burning beneath.

"We were just leaving," Miranda tells them. As satisfying as it would be to watch the krogan and humans beat Shepard down, she _does_ know where her loyalties lie. Her grudge may not be a petty one but Shepard's safety and health supersedes everything, including her own sister, no matter how it pains her.

"_We_ weren't," Shepard says.

"No touching the merchandise," the krogan tells her loudly, his voice booming over the music. "Aria doesn't care who you are." Miranda glances over in her direction, wondering if Aria is taking an active interest in the events but sees no sign of it.

"Are we _going _to have problem?" Shepard asks. Miranda wonders how much she's had to drink. The smell of it comes off of her skin and breath in waves. Omega isn't like Citadel clubs. These bouncers have weapons. The krogan isn't intimidated by Shepard but the humans anxiously finger the guns at their side.

"Yeah, I think we're going to have a problem," the krogan steps forward, his head butting viciously against Shepard's. Shepard falls back but is back up in an instant, gun cocked, trigger finger squeezing—

"Shepard, no!" Miranda does not want to start a war with Aria T'Loak. Shepard may be insignificant to her but her word is law here. Some human pushing and breaking the rules, no matter if they happen to be Commander Shepard, would be enough to contract a hit on her. They're barely halfway through their mission. Aria is vicious and tenacious. Her meddling could interfere with the entire operation. Miranda shoves Shepard's hand and the bullet discharges into the wall and not the krogan as Shepard intended.

The men attack all at once but Shepard is quick, dodging the butt of the rifle coming to the back of her head and lifting an arm, sending a violent shockwave through the club. Scattering not only the men, it sweeps up some of the other patrons, sending them flying in all directions. She springs, like a rubber band, with a biotic charge, staggering the krogan who nearly falls over onto a stunned bachelor party, an asari hurriedly getting out of the way. The human bouncers rush her but Shepard takes her tumbler glass, smashing it into the face of one, blocking the swinging fist of another, giving him a hard kick to the balls and dropping him before snatching the assault rifle of the third and smashing it four consecutive times into his face. The noises he makes aren't even human anymore and he falls to the ground.

Miranda's eyes glow a startling blue in the darkness, already fearing the repercussions that could come from this. The clubbers are running in all directions and she sees those who aren't scared becoming hostile, reaching tentatively for the weapons tucked at their backs and sides. Miranda takes hold of Shepard's arm and pulls her. "We're _leaving_," she yanks her before shoving her ahead.

"Didn't want to stick around anyway," Shepard says, agreeing at last to go and making her way to the exit.

Miranda's reservations grow. She feared that Shepard wouldn't be up to the task and that fear solidifies with every waking moment.


	4. Nature

A/N: I had so many plans for this chapter and ultimately I couldn't squeeze them all in or it would have been massive. Next chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you for the kind reviews and follows! This might be another tentatively M-rated chapter. Whoopsie. Massive thanks to my muse and grand collaborator Allusive Man, who also graciously edits this. And gives me chapter titles.

* * *

Hope told her that cheating is sometimes necessary to win. The clone isn't sure she agrees. She has been dispatched to Aeia, high in the mountains, where the air is thin and cold and fog always seems to be moving in.

The mountains are blanketed in tall pine trees. Hyun-shik, the old Korean hand-to-hand instructor Hope has secured for her, slams her against stout trees, knocks her to the ground over and over again until she's black and blue and swollen. The clone is happy Hope reminded her to unplug her biotic amp. She'd hate to undergo another operation.

Hyun-shik feeds her enough to keep her alive (despite how he and Hope jovially eat generous meals in front of her) and has taken to referring to her as 'cow' when she has no name to offer him.

At nights, when she shakes in the dark, breath fogging in the air, not given so much as a blanket or a rolling mat for comfort, she thinks of Hope who disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time. She doesn't always tell her when she's going and the clone's moods rise and fall with her presence.

On the nights when Hope isn't beside her, the clone closes her eyes, willing herself to ignore the crippling pain earned each day. Her thoughts percolate. She considers hand-to-hand combat and technique, thinking on what Hyun-shik has taught her and distilling it down to a science.

The progress feels slow but Hope and Hyun-shik assure her it's anything but. The clone has begun to discard some of the formulas, as Hope has often advised and begun to move on instinct. Weeks pass and her bruises lessen, she moves more quickly, gracefully, until one day she throws Hyun-shik to the ground.

What at first appears to be serendipity is replicated over and over again. Hope stands at the side of the open courtyard, arms crossed, approval in her eyes as Hyun-shik refers to her as a 'prized cow'. The clone bows to him, barely able to keep herself from beaming.

Hope strides over, resting an elbow on the clone's slick shoulder. "Even prized cows don't have a touch of grace like this one does," she tells Hyun-shik. "We're done here." Her eyes touch on the clone's. "Good work."

It is the first compliment Hope has given her. The clone reaches out to take Hope's hand but she's already moving on, off to gather their belongings, off to prepare for the next big thing.

There's an asari huntress named Neaira who is exceptional with hit-and-run tactics and biotics. A krogan battlemaster, Morkhel, who makes her fight varren and clanless krogan in an arena for the entertainment of his clan. All doubt she will last more than a day and all are proven wrong. Months pass and the clone's body grows stronger, harder, lean and muscled. Her biotic skills and powers have improved exponentially though she no longer offers juggling shows for Hope's benefit.

They head to a new safehouse, deep in Asteria. The air is hot and muggy and they sit on the black leather couch, unbearable in the heat. Hope reaches out to sweep the clone's sweaty, damp hair to the side, in that casual way that she does, injection gun at the ready when the clone takes her arm. "No." It is the first time she has said the word to Hope. Hope's eyes search her face and then she lowers the gun, setting it aside. The clone doesn't release her arm, not even when Hope tugs at it. "What's my name?"

"Jane Shepard."

"What's _my_ name? That's _her_ name." She hasn't earned that name. What is a face? What does it matter when none of the accomplishments are her own? How many of her disappointments have been because she has not lived up to the Jane Shepard standard?

"Your name is _Jane_. _Shepard_."

"You never call me anything. I'm just 'her' and 'she'. I guess it's better than 'it'." Bitterness peppers her voice. Uncomfortable anger bubbles in her stomach, rising steadily up her arms and chest, up her neck to her face until it burns. "Even animals have names." There is a flicker in Hope's eyes, dark and enticing before it is quickly suppressed. The clone's knuckles have gone white and she releases Hope, noticing she's left a handprint around her arm. The clone feels nauseous. "I have done _everything_ you've wanted."

Hope rubs her arm where the clone held her. "I'm going to need you to give me some space for the next few weeks. There are things that must be prepared to get you ready." She gets to her feet. "I want you to know that every moment of my existence, since before you woke, has been dedicated to you. That is always the case whether I'm with you or not." There's a beat. "I'm going to bed." The clone stands. "Sleep on the couch. We've shared a bed long enough."

The clone sits unsteadily when the bedroom door clicks shut.

* * *

_As you likely know, the Normandy will be docking in Illium shortly. Given our prior collaboration, I am offering you the courtesy and opportunity to assess the success of the Lazarus Project. I'll follow up with you in person at the appropriate time._

_-M_

The message arrives on her terminal along with countless others. Her network connections are so great that they rival those of long established information brokers on Illium. If not for Nyxeris she'd be truly buried, despite how she doesn't use her as she should.

Other information brokers have armies of assistants, ready to comb through the data. But Liara trusts no one; she barely trusts Nyxeris. Securing Feron's location, as well as that of the Shadow Broker, is the most important thing. Everything else can wait, including Miranda Lawson and Commander Jane Shepard.

Her chest tightens, defiant and contradicting her thoughts. Liara clears her throat. There are calls to take, calls to make. Miranda sent her a brief message months ago letting her know that Shepard was alive and healthy. She had not allowed herself to cry tears of happiness or relief. Shepard may now be well but she endangered a friend and now he is in the Shadow Broker's clutches. It's foolish to think he's alive but Shepard is. If that's possible, then anything is.

She sends word to Nyxeris to arrange for Shepard to be greeted when she inevitably arrives and then promptly forgets about her, knowing how dangerous it could be to dwell on the woman she loved, cried over and gave up everything she was for.

She's in the midst of making threats of asari commando units and flaying people alive when the door hisses open. Nyxeris hangs like a gremlin in the back but Liara doesn't see her.

There she is. _Jane_. Everything is still and for a moment Liara is afraid she'll break, that she'll release the steel in her spine and eyes and _let go_. Isn't this what she's wanted? Isn't this what she fought for? Wasn't securing Shepard's body what lay the foundation for her new life?

It's really her.

Liara is stunned but Shepard is motion, going to her, taking her face in her hands and crushing their lips together. Liara moans softly, returning the kiss heatedly, her former bashfulness gone. Her fingers graze along the back of Shepard's neck. She feels the same, her mouth tastes the same, even her smell is familiar. They pull back, breathless.

Liara notices that they aren't alone. Aside from Nyxeris there is Garrus, flexing his mandibles, clearing his throat, looking reticent and embarrassed. Beside him is Subject Zero: Jack, full lips set in scorn, arms crossed. Liara thinks she must be cold wearing so little. The temperature in Illium is always moderated to be cooler.

"I heard you were alive," Liara rasps, her fingers touching along her face, pausing when Shepard takes her fingers to kiss them, moved by the small, delicate action, "but I didn't trust it. Not until now."

"It's good to see you too, Liara," Garrus comments, "it's only been two years," he drawls, "but no acknowledgement is necessary, really." Liara only smiles palely at him. "I guess Jack and I will… go for drinks. Sound like a plan?" he asks her.

"Anything's better than this shit," Jack says with a dismissive wave of the hand. She exits, Garrus following after. Nyxeris lingers until Liara gives her a knowing look, silently asking for privacy.

The door isn't closed for an instant when Shepard's lips are on hers again. Liara wishes she could give in to this, give in to her. She still remembers the last time they made love.

In those mundane days when they were relegated to hunting geth, those hours were the best part of their days. Battle weary and worn they would retreat to Shepard's cabin, shower and fall to bed. They didn't always make love. Sometimes they fell asleep reading datapads or watching a vid. Other times they worked themselves to exhaustion, their hands constantly searching, mouths never separating for too long as they melded time and time again.

It was beautiful. They were beautiful and pure. The once intimidating commander wasn't what the reporters or articles said. Yes, she was ruthless but she was kind. She did what she thought was best, and it usually was—even if her means were sometimes questionable.

"I've missed you," Shepard says and when she leans in again, Liara expects a kiss. She is surprised, instead, by how tightly Shepard's arms wrap around her. Liara is incapable of moving. She closes her eyes, once again fighting to not abandon everything she has worked towards in the years since Shepard died.

When Shepard's grip slackens, Liara pulls back to look at her. She's different than before. Her skin is coming apart as if she were a rag doll. Shepard notices her but is still as Liara's fingers explore her face, exploring that which is still intact and that which is falling away. "I've missed you." She creates some distance between them, retreating behind the desk and ignoring Shepard's disappointment. "My contacts say you're after the Collectors now. And working with Cerberus," a wry smile touches her lips.

"They're working for me," Shepard snaps. She shakes her head. "I've been asking that bitch Miranda Lawson for months now to tell me where you are." Liara waits, finding red flecks in her eyes where there used to be green. "You know I have my reasons." Liara thinks Shepard means it as a question but it comes across as a declarative. "So you're making threats these days. Never thought I'd hear those kinds of things coming out of your mouth."

"Yes, well. It's been a very long time." Yes, she's an asari. It confounds her how it confounds humans whenever she makes similar statements. As if grief and anguish have not ever colored time, slowing it to a crawl, extending a terrible moment of blinding explosions and flashing lights in a black sky, and searing it into a memory to be played over and over again. "It's necessary if people are to take me seriously."

"Mean any of it?"

"Yes." It should embarrass her. When Shepard knew her, she would have found such assertions and threats uncouth. Things are different now. You have to become different when staying the same will crush who you are. "Are you here for any particular reason?" her voice slips easily back into information broker mode. "I could tell you what you need to know. I won't charge."

Shepard smiles. "I'm looking for an assassin and a justicar. But I don't care about them right now." She moves around the desk, taking hold of Liara's hips. "Say you'll come back with me." Liara shakes her head before the words are out of Shepard's mouth. The small action provokes a frown on Shepard's face. "Why not?"

"There are…things that need my attention. And that's all I can tell you right now. Please don't ask." Liara doesn't look at her. She feels Shepard's fingers bury into her skin but keeps her face composed and unresponsive. "So much time has passed."

"Not for me," Shepard says edgily. Liara dares to look at her. She isn't sure what fills Shepard's face more—heartache or anger. She takes a breath and Liara is relieved when her hold loosens. "You're all I think about since they brought me back. I am as in love with you as I was the day I got spaced. You can't tell me you don't feel the same way."

"It's been two years, Jane." Liara licks her lips nervously, surprised at the feeling that she long ago discarded. Shepard always had a way of putting her on edge. "I… I'm not sure what I feel." Yes, she does. She loves her still, with all of her heart, with every fiber of her being. But she knows Shepard. She knows what telling her those words will do, how they will be used to get what she wants. Yes, Shepard could be pure but she wasn't always. Shepard could also be cruel. Even love was a weapon. "I care about you." Shepard scoffs. "But I don't have time to figure out what this is. And neither do you." Shepard releases her roughly, eyes focused dangerously on Liara. "Maybe that isn't what you wanted to hear. But I can't give you more."

Shepard bows her head, lips twisting. Her biotic aura throbs and Liara remembers when it beat in time with her heart, how it would flare and fill a darkened room then their lovemaking became particularly rigorous. "How about a fuck?" she asks.

Liara often heard her speak in this manner before. Sometimes when she said the words there was a twinkle in her eye and Liara would appease her. Despite what Shepard thought, she too came to crave their special time together, enjoyed becoming more than just herself, become fuller somehow. This time there is no sparkle to her eye, not even a telling smile. "No," Liara says simply.

A long time passes and then Shepard asks about the assassin, about the justicar. Liara is happy to provide answers though Shepard receives them indifferently and without appreciation. It is with great shame that Liara asks Shepard to aid her in securing the identity of _the Observer_. Shepard smiles faintly as Liara speaks.

"I've got enough shit to do," Shepard says. "I don't need to waste my time on someone who refuses to be on my team." She stands, turning her back to her and going to the door, rounding sharply. "Jesus Christ, didn't any of what we had mean anything to you?" Liara bites her lip, staring at her hands on her desk. She could use her love to get Shepard to do what she wants but it doesn't strike her as fair or right. "Just tell me where to go," Shepard growls, leaving without a glance back.

* * *

Hope keeps her steps controlled and searches the safehouse thoroughly. She can no longer deny it. The clone is gone.

No matter how Hope resists, she cannot overcome the panic that spikes into her gut. Gone. She's gone.

The clone has become a petulant, sulking thing since Hope restricted her from sharing a bed. She has begun to notice, with some sliver of pleasure and uncertainty, how the clone has started to eye her. Hope is accustomed to men and women desiring her but doubts the clone knows she's doing it. No amount of academic knowledge can prepare a person for infatuation, nor can it teach them how to temper any wild ideas they may begin to have.

What Hope knows is that both love and lust are a distraction. It will reduce a person to cravings and whims. It could ruin everything. Hope acknowledges that she could use the clone's burgeoning desires to better direct it towards their goals. The clone has become willful in the past several months, every strength achieved a barrier created between them, independence gained.

Commander Shepard is one of the most willful individuals in the galaxy, no doubt about it. This is part of the process and Hope is glad that things are moving steadily forward. However, she cannot deny that if the clone becomes too independent, too willful, she may decide to abandon Hope altogether and go her own way. It would be a loss for the galaxy should Shepard fail and a setback for the clone, who wouldn't know how to make it on her own, not as she ought to.

Hope's ideas and plans are in conflict. On the one hand, she cannot allow the clone to get too attached to her. The clone is meant to be a lone wolf. Attachments are a setback. Attachments lead to compromise. She does not want to foster any emotion in the woman. What she needs is clear, calculated action that will allow for her to efficiently get the job done. On the other hand, if Hope keeps her at a distance, the clone may leave. She has implanted her with a tracking device but should she discover it…

Hope exits into the night, the darkness kept at bay by flashing neon lights in bright pinks, red and blues. Rain falls in sheets and Hope scowls as she's instantly soaked. There are cabs zipping through the skies, individuals laughing and running through the rain. It's hard to hear anything through the storm save for water splashing. The clone could have gone in any direction. She exhales slowly, thankful that she thought things out in advance.

A few clicks on the omni-tool and the area map comes up, along with the clone's red, blinking destination. Hope sighs with relief. The tracker is tiny, no larger than a grain of rice, buried in the underside of the clone's forearm. Hope follows the trail, making her way past red sand dealers and groups of mercenaries that eye her suspiciously.

She stops, stumped, at a theatre. Not just any threatre. There is an outline of an asari woman at the top, blinking blue and pink. Red XXX fades in and out lethargically. Hope's jaw tenses and she moves inside, paying the humiliating fee to enter, eventually tracking her down to a room filled mostly with men who've unzipped their flies, clenched fists moving rhythmically.

Hope sighs inwardly, hating the sticky floors and the musky smell to the place. She spots the clone several rows down, closer to the front and takes a seat beside her. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," she bristles. Here she is in a porn theatre. Not only that, an asari porn theatre. "Is this what gets you off?" She hopes not.

"I don't know. Maybe. They're so weird with those tentacles. I didn't want to come here. I just couldn't help it."

"You idiot. You know you can get this all over the extranet, for free. And in a clean environment."

"I knew you'd complain if I did it there. Don't try to deny it." The clone looks at her and then back at the screen where two oiled asari are writhing against one another, panting and crying out to goddesses. A hanar wearing a utility belt watches in the corner. _This one had not expected this when coming by to make repairs. _Hope notices that the top button of the clone's pants is undone."How did you find me?" she asks.

"That's not important."

"Did you put a tracking device on me?" She asks. _Shit_. The clone doesn't sound particularly surprised, only irritated. "It's just like you to do that."

"Or maybe you're not half so clever as you think. You're naïve. And sloppy." Hope tries to ignore the meat slapping noises behind her. She hates the clone for dragging her to such a filthy establishment. The clone looks at her heatedly. "Don't you _ever_ leave without telling me where you're going. Do you understand?"

The clone takes labored breaths and Hope isn't sure if it's from anger or arousal. Hope crosses her legs, annoyed at the spark it sends up her spine. "I asked you a question."

"I don't feel like talking to you right now."

"Too bad." Hope says. The clone stands, buttons her pants and walks out. Hope follows her outside where it's still pouring. "Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you." But the clone continues to walk, acting as if she hasn't heard her at all. Hope reaches out, grabbing her rain-slicked arm but even her vicious grip isn't enough to hold her. The clone yanks her arm free, her eyes murderous.

"Who do you think you are?" the clone asks. "You treat me like a child."

"You _are_ a child."

The clone's nostrils flare, fists clenching. Hope wonders if she's going to hit her. Hope wonders if she would be happy or hurt if she did. Yes. This is what she's been trying to forge her into. She's read extensively on Commander Shepard's volatile moods, on her fearsome temper. This is the clone's nature, she supposes. Yes. This is progress. The clone has to become hard as diamonds, unshakable, unrelenting, unstoppable. Hope only wishes for her to exert a greater control over those feelings. She wants her to chill them until they are removed. It isn't enough to become Shepard. She has to surpass her.

Their argument is interrupted with the arrival of the mercenaries Hope spotted earlier. She stands straighter and surveys the group. Seven of them. Turians, batarians, humans. The glow of the neon lights reveal their rain-beaded armor: Blue Suns. Does the clone realize how she moves in front of Hope, like a shield? It's unnecessary but Hope is glad for the insight.

"Do we have a problem?" the clone asks, her smile casual.

"Not with you," a turian says. His face looks soft in the rain, with the splash of the neon lights. His blue face paint is running, comically making it look as if drawn tears are sliding down his face. "But your friend here looks like someone Cerberus has an eye on."

"Cerberus?" Hope says with a caustic laugh. "Don't you know they want to end idiots like you?"

"Don't give a damn what they think," a batarian steps forward, assault rifle in hand. Hope notices how the clone's body tenses at its approach. No doubt she's reliving the night the Blue Suns tried to kill her. "As long as they're paying credits."

Hope had not anticipated this attack. It's the clone's fault for scampering off without permission. It's a hiccup in her plans. One that must be immediately resolved. The clone smiles again, taking a step forward. "You don't want to do this. So why don't you take this opportunity to walk away?"

The Blue Suns look at each other and laugh. One of them prods the clone's shoulder with the butt of his shotgun, sending her stumbling back a step. "You must be new around here. So I won't blow your brains out. If you give me the credits that are being offered up for her." The clone's smile tenses. "Five million should cover it."

The clone looks at Hope who shakes her head. She looks back at the group. "Walk away. Or…are we _going_ to have a problem?"

Hope retrieves the sidearm tucked into the small of her back and presses the barrel of the M-5 Phalanx to the forehead of the shotgun-wielding batarian. She pulls the trigger and his head explodes, sending chunks out in all directions, splashing blood and goop across her face and the clone's. "I think we're going to have a problem," Hope says. "Kill them," she instructs the clone. "Kill them all."

Hope cloaks and removes herself from the battle. She has taken the ability to negotiate from the clone, as the world often will. Now all she has to do is survive. Hope is confident that she will. A torrent of gunfire rains out but the clone is quick with her barrier. An instant later she's flung a human, a batarian and a turian from the high bridge they stand on. Hope smiles. It's like the beginning of a joke, the only punchline being that Shepard's clone is almost as good at killing as Shepard is.

The clone has no weapon—initially. It rips a heavy pistol away from one of the humans, a moment later throwing out a singularity field to send them flying into the air. She detonates it with a warp mass effect field, hurling the men in opposite directions, some of them not whole men anymore.

Only one Blue Sun remains, screaming, spinning helplessly in the air. Hope uncloaks and stands beside the clone. "Look at that," Hope says, her voice lighter than usual, cheerful, pleased, "not one shot fired. I'm very impressed." Unfortunately she doesn't fight like a vanguard, she fights like an adept. That can be resolved in time, she thinks. For the time being, she is pleased.

The clone returns her smile, pressing the barrel of the gun to the turian's head and pulling the trigger. His screams are cut off sharply. Dead and bleeding he continues to spin, blood forming in a puddle below him before he flops lifelessly to the ground. "I'd hate to get predictable," the clone says.

The rain falls. Hope looks at the clone, lifting a tentative, careful hand to cup her face.

* * *

It just isn't the same anymore. New shiny ship, Shepard and Joker but everything's different. Shepard's taking orders from smoking men on holograms. She's welding herself to Liara's face one minute and walking off with Jack an hour later at a club. She returns alone, the smell of Jack all over her.

Jack's a wreck but she's a powerhouse. Garrus figures they need powerhouses these days. It never gets easier. Saren, the geth, all of it feels like a lifetime ago. Different crew, different set of eyes, they were naïve and hopeful then.

He keeps looking to Shepard to set him straight. When he joined the Normandy near three years ago she gave him no quarter, pulled no punches. She admired his ability and willingness to cut past the red tape and do what needed to be _done_. And _maybe_ he had a small case of hero worship. Not that he'd ever tell her that.

Now their old crew is gone and they're working with an old enemy. Shepard doesn't give assurances about Cerberus and he isn't sure he'd believe her if she tried. He hates to admit it, but the XO runs a tighter ship than Shepard does. Maybe death will do that to a person. She's only just come back. These things aren't natural. Maybe it will take some time. Is there time?

He grunts, unsettled by the thoughts. It's not like that, really. Shepard only relaxes around him. He's flattered. They've made it this far with no casualties. They're slightly behind schedule, he thinks, but… He grunts again, trying not to think of it.

He's parked on a stool in the battery of the Normandy-SR2, calibrating the guns. Helps him think, set his mind at ease. There's something soothing about constant repetition, tweaking, adjusting.

Shepard's been jumpy since Illium, ultimately deciding against finding the assassin and the justicar. Instead she'd wanted drinks and they'd gone to a bar, talked to a matriarch with a bigger quad than Garrus had ever seen. Shepard chatted up the bartender matriarch while Garrus, having overheard a conversation at a bachelor party, became obsessed with whether asari play some kind of mind trick on other species.

Shepard's mood verged from sadness to anger. Mostly the second. She's always been a little rough around the edges. She was never a big fan of Cerberus. Other species' find Cerberus a nuisance but humans are another thing altogether, opinions diverging wildly. Shepard goes apoplectic at the mention of them.

Garrus figures she owes them a favor. It worried him before but the doubt dwindles away the more she mouths off to Miranda, when she snaps at the pesky, intrusive AI. She never acknowledges Jacob. Garrus doesn't think Shepard is of the mind to pay back any debts. She did do that errand for Liara though. Shepard's always had a soft spot for Liara…

The door to the battery opens but Garrus doesn't turn. He doesn't mind Daniels or Donnelly but if Gardner has come by to try to test out a new 'food' on him, he'll shove the wrench he's using up his ass. The side of his face itches beneath the gauze that's still taped to his face and he flexes his mandible, trying not to touch the aching, burning skin. He discreetly lifts the wrench to his face to try and sooth some of the itchiness.

"Careful. You'll scar," Shepard says. Garrus smiles, looking back at Shepard who lifts a six-pack of beer. Garrus looks with keen interest at the bottles and is glad to see that it's an assorted pack with turian beers included. "Come on, it's time for some shore leave. And screw your calibrations," she spots the wrench in his hand. "Let's hustle."

She exits and Garrus reluctantly follows after her. Gardner shoots him a look, lifting a bowl of food. Garrus shakes his head and keeps moving. So many uniformed Cerberus agents. At least there's Dr. Chakwas. "Didn't we just have shore leave?" he asks.

"Garrus," her voice is sing-song, "you're sounding like Miranda."

He chuckles, not imagining how that could be possible. The woman is hard and calculating but her voice is silken—when she isn't tearing Shepard down, anyway. Shepard has told him about Miranda's statements of perfection. He's never had a thing for humans but he can admit—she's… well shaped. They exit the Normandy and move through Illium's crowds again, taking a taxi up to some impossibly tall building that still manages to be well-tended. They step off onto the roof and the world is spread out before them. "If you wanted to get me alone, Shepard, you just had to ask."

She grins, seeing him eye the liquor and throwing him a bottle. He catches it, popping the lid with ease and taking a long, cool drink. Turian alcohol is hard to find outside of Citadel space, requisitioning it isn't cheap or easy.

"Ah, that hit the spot. Thanks," he gets a nod in response. Shepard stands on the railing of the building, it's six inches wide at most and the wind is kicking. He knows better than to tell her to be careful but he casually inches closer. "You know, I love a drink as much as anyone," but they've pounded some back earlier today and he's starting to get a headache, "but we should probably start buckling down. We aren't halfway through those dossiers yet. We're here…" he points out gently.

"I noticed." Shepard takes a drink, head tilted back. Garrus keeps an eye on her. "You watching me too, Garrus? I came here to get away from prying eyes." Her eyes flare bright and indignant.

"I'm hurt. I thought you were too shy to ask me for a date."

That gets her to smile. "Thank God you're here." There's a long pause. They stare out into the horizon. There are lights everywhere but it still doesn't dull the skies, flushed with lavenders and pinks, oranges and dark blues. Garrus wonders if he's feeling sentimental. "Illium's something, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's pretty all right. Very… _asari_. Good views. Good vistas. Good for sniping," he says. She smiles again. It dulls that growing red ring to her eyes. "And… for some… entertainment." Her fingers play with the label on the beer bottle. "You're not going to make me ask, are you?" Shepard's eyes are dark. "Turians aren't known for gossip. But uh—I always thought…blue was more to your tastes." She frowns. "Was a bit of a shock when I came back onboard and Liara wasn't there. What's the matter," he jokes, "have you lost your touch?"

Her eyes blaze hot with anger. Things were formal between the two of them in the beginning. She wasn't bad for a human. She wasn't bad for anyone. Eventually Shepard relaxed, and some of their professional camaraderie developed into a friendship. Ribbing each other was common. He couldn't believe it was really her when she appeared in Omega. In some ways it's still hard to believe. But the memories are there. That isn't something you can fake. "Go back to sniping thugs and leave those kinds of questions for those who have played in the big leagues."

Garrus laughs shortly but can tell she's bothered. Her response might irk him on a day he was feeling particularly sensitive, but not today. "Then…you and Jack…"

"Drop it, Garrus."

He decides to do just that. Shepard's exploits and conquests have never been that interesting to him. He's only trying to make conversation. Garrus isn't sure if Shepard is ready for it.

Shepard begins to pace on the ledge of the building, making Garrus tense. Her balance is incredible but all it would take is one slip to send her tumbling down below and he's pretty sure there aren't spare copies of her running around. Not that a copy could ever cut it, not that it could ever be the real thing. They'd be screwed. "We need to get rid of the cameras. We need to get rid of _them_." Garrus lifts his eyes to her. "Miranda. Jacob." She massages her temple. "Maybe Jack," she says thoughtfully, "I don't know. You can't trust people like that. And that krogan. Bred in some lab somewhere," she shakes her head again. "It's not right."

"Well, Shepard, I'll admit it—we're pretty bad-ass. But even we can't take the Collector's down on our own. We still have five of the dossiers to hunt down. What if you like them less than Miranda?" He asks. She laughs dryly. "Come on, get down from there, you're making me nervous."

She doesn't. "Garrus, I don't trust anyone on the ship. How am I supposed to fight Collectors when I'm worried they're going to stab me in the back? I get rid of them… maybe Kaidan will come back. Maybe Liara will. We can find Tali, wherever the hell she is. I just—I really need the old team back."

"Right." He finishes his beer and sets it aside. "And what if you don't get them? I know I don't have Liara's curves or Tali's—but you might just have to settle for me." This time she doesn't smile, her brow furrowing deeper, her eyes glinting red. "We can't kill them," he jokes.

Shepard paces, jaw set hard before eventually jumping down beside him. "Maybe not. Maybe you're right." She rubs her eyes and sighs. "Garrus, when the time comes I need to know that you'll have my back."

He means to ask what time she refers to. "I'll always have your back, Shepard."

She nods once distracted. "Good." More assured. "Good."


	5. Nurture

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews and follows everyone! Ah! It's great. Thank you all so much. Another round of massive thanks to Allusive Man for editing and being my creative advisor! This is a heavy, heavy, heavy Miranda chapter. The next chapter should be all Clone and Hope! It will be fun, I promise.

* * *

They're behind schedule. Some would argue there isn't a timeline set in stone. Miranda would beg to differ. She understands parameters and guidelines. She understands that some things are time-sensitive. Currently, Collectors are abducting hundreds of thousands of humans. Their purpose has yet to be determined but Miranda doesn't need to know the _why_. Not yet. What she _does_ need is for Commander Shepard to get off her ass and do what she was brought back for.

Miranda can't help but think of the time and expense poured into her, poured into bringing back a legend that is failing to meet expectations by a considerable margin.

The commander doesn't attend meetings, refuses to look over data that she and EDI have gathered. The only talents she appears to have are fighting, drinking and whoring. The situation is grim. Thus far she's only managed to secure Thane from the new batch of dossiers. Jacob is constantly at his throat and any attempts at getting Shepard to mediate the situation are met with indifference. _Long as they're out on the field killing Collectors I don't care what they do on their off time._

Jacob has always played it on the straight and narrow. Miranda knows what kind of man he is. She understands his reservations and _if_ she had the time, she'd be happy to discuss the issue with him. Ultimately, their squad is not negotiable. They may not be the best humanity has to offer—but they are the most qualified to accomplish their seemingly impossible mission. She thinks idly of Hope Lilium, who drafted the dossiers and wonders how she came to know the individuals she hand-selected for the mission. They are tempered and cool, vicious and unforgiving. It doesn't matter as long as they are suitable.

Miranda's task was to recreate Shepard, to bring her back from oblivion, reconstruct her, make her whole again. She did that. So why does she doubt her work? Is it her fault that Shepard is meandering? She knows how the media and the Alliance will build someone up to surpass who they _really_ are. Garrus appears satisfied. Maybe that's enough of a telling sign. Yet, she can't let it go. It's why she goes to _him_.

The Illusive Man exhales cigarette smoke slowly. They're only interacting via holographic interface but Miranda remembers the sweet smell of his cigarettes, the bitter underlying scent beneath. He rubs his temple gently with his index and middle finger and Miranda worries that she's the cause for his headache.

Miranda knows herself capable of quickly grasping the nature of a person moments within meeting them. That is always the case except for one: the Illusive Man. She knows little about him save for the vapid profile pieces several magazines have done, waxing poetic about his conquests at parties, how deep his pockets run, how stylishly he presents himself. But none of that matters and none of that is who he really is.

His eyes are machine like. Miranda wishes she could look into his files, see in what ways he has been augmented. She knows no matter how high up on the chain she is, that is something she will never have access to.

He taps some ash into the ashtray, straightening his back, setting his eyes on her. "You have concerns. But Shepard is performing as we expected." Miranda bites her tongue. "We didn't bring her back for her winsome personality. We brought her back because of what she could do. So far she's managed to find out the cause of the human abductions. The Collectors are a force to be reckoned with but they haven't slowed her down."

"What about her excessive partying?" Miranda asks, barely able to keep her voice even. "The crew is at each other's necks. She's not providing any kind of leadership and she constantly works to undermine Cerberus. We should have implanted her with that control chip. We still can."

The Illusive Man takes another long drag of his cigarette, the bright red tip making his face warmer than it is. "It is _your_ job to keep things under control, Miranda. That includes Commander Shepard." Smoke blows steadily from his nostrils before he crushes the cigarette. "If you _can't_ do that, I'll find someone who can."

His hologram fidgets before fading away entirely, leaving Miranda in the dark.

* * *

It's 5:46am and Miranda has been up for an hour. She doesn't lift her head when she hears the cabin door open, trying to craft her latest report for the Illusive Man. He wants results and constant updates but since Horizon things have slowed to a crawl. Commander Shepard is more obstinate than ever, no matter how she swears that she's 'taking care of it'. Sometimes Shepard sits in the mess hall, wearing a Cerberus hoodie with the hood pulled over her head. She won't move for hours.

Miranda massages her forehead, finally turning to her visitor. Ah, Kelly Chambers. The redhead with the plastic smile and soft, encouraging voice. She was a member of the Lazarus Cell but the two rarely had any interaction during Shepard's reconstruction. Miranda isn't even sure she considers psychology a real science. Measurements and quantifiable results are fuzzy at best.

Miranda recalls nearly retching when the yeoman introduced herself to Shepard, laying it on so thick she nearly needed to be hosed down. "Shouldn't you be at your post?"

"I'm on my way," Kelly says. Unlike the other members of the crew, she isn't cowed by Miranda's persona and reprimands. It is unusual to meet someone who isn't intimidated by her. It leads Miranda to believe that there is more to the woman than meets the eye. She has looked at her records extensively. She was an exceptional student but Cerberus doesn't take an interest in anyone who isn't. For Cerberus and the role she has been granted on the Normandy, she is unexceptional. "Commander Shepard has 352 unread messages." Miranda waits. "I've reminded her. She isn't listening."

"What else?" she snaps.

"Morale is low. You above everyone know how the Lazarus Cell worked at resurrecting Commander Shepard. The crew expected…someone different." Kelly lifts her datapad, scrolling through it. "Jack has been asking to see Commander Shepard for weeks. As has Jacob. Grunt. Mordin. And now Thane." Miranda abandons the report, feeling a headache begin to throb at the base and corners of her skull. "I've analyzed their records and histories. I believe they are carrying past trauma with them that need to be resolved."

"Kelly, I have a great deal to do. Have you tried impressing the point on the Commander?"

"I have. Many times, in fact. The Commander is … forceful and at times…distracting."

So she's useless. Miranda bites back the comment. Kelly meets her gaze directly, no matter how Miranda scowls at her. Her eyes are stark like a porcelain doll's. "Kelly, I'm going to need you to maintain a professional relationship with the Commander from this point forward, is that clear? If you are unable to do so you will be relieved of your post." Kelly stares back at her. A moment later, she nods. Miranda narrows her eyes. "What is your assessment of her?"

"You've put me in a bit of a spot. I don't have all her notes." She straightens, folding her arms behind her and takes a breath. "Commander Shepard appears to be exhibiting a degree of troubling behaviors. She is reckless with her squad's feelings and has taken to drinking heavily. She engages in promiscuous sex, with many of the crew, in fact." Miranda is impressed that Kelly doesn't blanch at the words. "She's angry and resentful of our organization. She despises you and Jacob in particular, and has withdrawn from healthy social activity and any community supports. Overall she presents as depressed."

Miranda grits her jaw tightly, teeth grinding. This is everything she knew. Everything she feared. She may be exceptional with the hard lines and laws of science but human behavior is a murkier area than she is accustomed to dealing with. She cannot doubt Kelly's words. "This is going to present a problem."

"It already is, Ms. Lawson. I have received word from Kasumi Goto and Zaeed Massani, wondering if we are looking to breach the contracts we've made with them. Even breaking those contracts would cost Cerberus a sizable sum. Not to mention—"

"I know what the stakes are. Forward all those communications to me. I'll handle them. While you're at it, forward me everything you have on the current squad." If Shepard isn't ready to lead then she'll have to get used to Miranda taking the reins. It isn't what she wanted but taking authority fits her like a glove. At least this way she'll be sure it's done right.

* * *

_You think I'd discuss anything with you? No fucking way._

Miranda can't say she's surprised by Jack's reaction. The woman is a loose cannon and she doesn't trust Cerberus. The experiments Cerberus did on her were a tad extreme but they provided results. Not that they will mean anything if she can't sort out whatever issues she's hung up on.

Mordin is more affable, taking a deep breath that signals that he is no doubt ready to talk at a rapid pace for a good chunk of time. Mordin is cold and calculating but Miranda has often been called the same. What matters is that he's brilliant. He's already saved them from Collector swarms and an explosion of the krogan population. He is necessary, not only to the mission, but to the world at large. "Former assistant. Maelon. On Tuchanka. Worried what Blood Pack will do. Cannot discover his work on the genophage project. Could result in Maelon's death. Worse, torture before death. Unacceptable. Must go to Tuchanka. Tried to tell Shepard. Shepard says 'not now, Mordin, busy'." He takes another deep breath. Miranda sees herself reflected in his large, black eyes. "Would be favor to me."

And no matter how controlled the salarian scientist is, Miranda can see he's troubled, as well as the considerable effort it took to ask. Much like she asked for Shepard's assistance and was turned away time and time again. "No promises, Mordin but I'll see what I can do."

He appears somewhat satisfied with that and she moves along to engineering. Grunt is a tyrant. He's been making a mess of the port cargo hold for days. She and EDI advised Shepard against opening his tank—Shepard went ahead and did whatever the hell she wanted—as is her habit—and has since ignored him. Miranda braces herself and enters the hold. She quickly sidesteps the vestiges of the tank that he throws in her direction and it crashes into the wall behind her with a splintering clang. "Oh. It's you." His baritone voice is filled with more anger than usual. He quickly stomps his way over to her, practically charging. Miranda doesn't flinch. "Heh. Thought a puny thing like you would go running." He lifts a hand dismissively. "Go away, Human. I don't want you. I want Shepard."

"Shepard isn't available. You'll have to work with me." What she doesn't tell him is that he's getting the better deal. EDI informed her that the first time Shepard woke Grunt she pointed a gun at him. Krogans don't have much luck around the Commander. And neither will anyone else if she doesn't snap out of whatever funk she's in and begin acting like a leading officer. "Is there any reason you're tearing the ship apart?"

He stares at her for a long time, his clawed hands curling into fists. He snorts derisively, pacing, pacing. With each heavy step he takes, she feels it like an earthquake beneath her. Grunt was bred in a tank. It's possible that Okeer made mistakes, that he isn't mentally fit or healthy. Krogan have a reputation for being hostile and aggressive but not like this, not without reason. She is not like Okeer. Shepard is not like Grunt.

"Shepard promised me purpose. I am Krogan. I am _strong_. Stronger than the rest of the puny things on this ship. I was promised action. Enemies that threaten galaxies. But here I am. Still captive. No better than the Tank. I long to get my hands on our enemies. Tear those insects apart piece by piece. Crush their heads in my hands until their blood and bone—"

"If you have a point, get to it."

He looks offended. Lips thinning, hiding his jagged teeth. He snorts again derisively. It's almost comical. He lifts his head to look at her, then, pointedly, curls a fist and slams it into the window overlooking the hanger bay. Miranda mentally calculates the cost of the repair while spiderweb cracks form along the glass. "I am restless. Angry." She crosses her arms. "I will not be looked at by your human or salarian doctor. Only true krogan in Tuchanka can help me."

Great. Two of the crew wants to head to the wasteland that is Tuchanka. At the very least it will be only one stop and won't throw them entirely off course.

"I'll speak to Shepard," she tells him absently.

Through the spidery cracked glass she can see the crew gathered round two people tangled in combat. The krogan steps beside her to chuckle at the display. It's Shepard and Jacob. Some of the crew bring their hands to their face and look away. Miranda swears inwardly, quickly making her way to the shuttle bay.

* * *

Crates are scattered in every direction, some ripped open, spilling over with spare Normandy parts: scraps, cogs, pipes. Shepard's hand is wrapped around the fabric of Jacob's uniform, before she brutally slams a fist into his face. Jacob falls to the floor, sliding back several feet. It's hard to make Jacob angry but even as the blood runs down his temple and nose, the area around his eyes already beginning to swell, Miranda can see that he's livid.

Their eyes meet and though Miranda stiffens, Jacob shakes his head. Shepard has her back to her, spine straight as a rod, bloody fists glowing blue. "Come on, Jacob. Is that all you got?" She advances. "I can't believe the Alliance would ever take an embarrassment like you. You're not even man enough to fight back."

"You're my commanding officer," he growls, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "We didn't spend two years bringing you back so I could put you right back into the ground."

"Oh, so you think you have what it takes." Shepard laughs bitterly. A metal pipe scrapes along the floor, grating until it flies into her hand. She wraps her fingers tightly around it. "I'm really hoping there's some fight in you _somewhere_. I _hate_ putting down someone who won't even put up a fight."

Jacob is a proud man. Miranda knows why he won't let her intervene. But this is madness. What is he trying to prove? No doubt Miranda has convinced him about the success of the project. No doubt he thinks Shepard capable of what is demanded. He can't give her a kick of biotics—if she's the real thing and he snaps her neck he'll be taking out the galaxy's greatest hope against the Collectors.

Miranda looks around the shuttle bay. The crew is mortified, disgusted. This is their fearless leader? Not that she thinks Shepard fears anything. Maybe some fear is reasonable, necessary. Maybe it makes you moral. But who can stare death in the face, come back and be afraid of anything? Miranda takes a step forward. If only the Illusive Man hadn't ruled out the control chip. "Shepard. You're out of control."

"Stay out of this, Miranda," Shepard barks. "So help me God—" Shepard marches up to her, thrusting her face close; she hits Miranda with her spittle. "You bring me back to run this shit show," she hisses, "I expect the crew to follow orders. I want to get some energy out. I want to spar with your _boy_, I expect him to spar. Not this 'no, Ma'am, can't do that Ma'am' bullshit. Don't try to tell me you Cerberus assholes have some code of honor."

"We're here to support you on this mission, Shepard. No more. We're not punching bags," she lowers her voice, "for your tantrums. You're jeopardizing the mission." Shepard glowers, hot breath spilling over Miranda. Miranda's gaze is unwavering.

Shepard stomps off. Jacob's gotten to his feet. "Did I say you could get up?" she asks. She buries the end of the pipe into his stomach and he doubles over. She's raising the pipe over his head when Garrus' talons wrap around her arm. Shepard looks at him, furious and then mollified. Miranda thinks she must make up the shame and sadness that fills her features.

"That's enough for now," Garrus says. "You know he couldn't stand up to you if he tried." He keeps his hand wrapped around her arm until the fury of her eyes dies away. When he releases her, the pipe falls to the ground.

"Everyone, clear out," Miranda says. The Cerberus crew begins to gather and filter out of the shuttle bay area. Miranda watches over them. The amount of damage control she'll have to do is staggering. Jacob is limping but when she tries to get his attention he dismisses her before moving on, no doubt trying to salvage some bit of pride. Miranda gets to the elevator, stepping inside. Garrus is putting a hand to Shepard's shoulder when the elevator doors close; she looks tired and small.

* * *

_I am sorry that we won't get to meet in person, though I believe I can tell you what needed to be said just as easily over e-mail. Jane is gruff. That has always been her way. She is an exceptional woman but she has never been soft. At times, she could be cruel. I know what you're up against. You do need her. As far as I am able to tell, the project was a success. You have my thanks. Please take care of her._

_Liara_

Miranda reads the email again despite having memorized it the first time. One of her many talents that is currently proving useless. She begins to compose an email, intent on pressing for more details but discards it. She knows that Liara and Shepard had a relationship. Liara's opinion is biased. The woman she loves is alive again. Of course she'd want to believe the best.

Maybe this is the best. Miranda tries to escape her doubts. She has researched all of Shepard's vids meticulously, combed through all the Alliance records. Such behavior was never documented. She had a reputation for being merciless on the battlefield but respected among the soldiers who served under her. There were no charges of dishonorable conduct anywhere.

She goes through Kelly's notes. Mental health trauma, PTSD, anti-social personality disorder, depression. All are speculations based on Shepard's experiences, on witnessed behavior. Once again, Miranda silently curses the open-endedness of psychology, how some diagnoses are given simply because others find the charge's behavior tedious and annoying. Miranda does not believe Shepard is a sociopath but the evidence is stacked against the both of them.

Her cabin door opens and Garrus enters, shadows filling his face, making every sharp angle stand out where the light touches. His eyes settle on her and Miranda detects his wariness. She nods to the chair opposite of her but Garrus remains where he stands. He clears his throat. "Whatever you have to say to me you can say it in front of Shepard."

"If you really thought that, why come alone?" Miranda asks. His mandibles flex. He sits. Miranda doesn't have a speech prepared. She doesn't need to get Garrus Vakarian on her side. She couldn't if she wanted to. She needs to get him on Shepard's side. She needs him to help her. "I don't need to tell you how Shepard's actions have been affecting the crew and this mission. You have eyes." He makes a sound. "What do you think?" He reaches out to pick up a mug on her desk, turning it, she thinks, in an attempt to bide time. His movements are careful. He sets it back on the desk but keeps his silence. "Can you tell me? Or do you need to get Shepard's permission?"

"You want something. It's all over your face. What a pity that all that gene tailoring has so little effect on turians," he sounds pleased with himself. Miranda won't engage him in debate. She knows to be grateful for what she has. She doesn't have to tell him how it's crushed her in the past, how it has molded others expectations of her. "I guess you never thought you'd need it." Garrus looks down at the chair and resituates himself, planting a taloned foot on the desk.

Miranda looks at it and back at his face. "You're avoiding the question."

"I don't trust you. So yes. I am."

Miranda leans forward on the desk, knocking his foot off to land with a slam on the floor. She doesn't withdraw. Garrus stretches his torso forward, eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't need you to trust me. You can but that's not what I'm asking for. You look me in the eye and tell me this is the Shepard you worked with to stop Saren. Tell me that her constant screwing around, literally, figuratively, is what it's going to take to stop the Collectors. If that's the case, get out of my office and we can all continue as we have. If you can live with that, then I'll have no choice but to do the same. But we can do better. _She_ can do better."

"What do you want from me, Miranda?" he asks impatiently.

"We both know we can't continue as we have. If you don't know that, the rocket hit you harder than I thought." Miranda pulls back at the same time that he does. His mandibles twitch. He is getting antsier by the second and Miranda knows that any misstep will turn him against her entirely and could sabotage the rest of the mission. Once again, she's forced to swallow her pride. "Shepard respects you." He gazes at her, eyes predatory. "I am working around the clock to clean up her messes. Whenever we land, she starts a brawl. She isn't tending to the squad, she isn't even bothering to build our team," frustration squeezes her voice. Garrus blinks. "You stopped her in the shuttle bay. She needs your help. She isn't willing to listen to me."

"You're an outspoken advocate for a terrorist organization that dogged us years ago. We _saw_ the reprehensible experiments you were running. On your own kind. Makes the whole 'humanity first' schtick you put out there seem full of shit. She'd be crazy to trust you."

Miranda's mood darkens. No matter what she does, no matter what she says, Cerberus' reputation will continue to cause setbacks. "I can provide unlimited resources and support but none of that matters. You're right. I am the face of Cerberus. You're _not_. You're Archangel. Cleaning up the scourge of Omega."

"Cut the sales pitch, Miranda, I know who I am."

Miranda's never been one to stroke egos. She's happy to move on. "Fine. The Collectors are abducting human colonies. Maybe you don't care about that but you _must_ care about the Reapers. They're not gone. They're biding their time. And at the rate we're going we'll never be ready. Shepard listens to you. If we are to stand any chance against them we'll need her. _Help her._ Help us _all_."

Garrus stands. Miranda thinks he's smiling. "Coming to a turian for help because you think you screwed it all up and you can't control your pet project." Garrus laughs. Miranda gets to her feet, fingers flat on the desk, eyes hard as flint. She refuses to believe that he's this stupid. "This must be _killing_ you." He slaps his hands down beside hers, making the mug and the books rattle. Miranda notices how his talons scratch into the desk. "Things must be _serious_." He cocks his head to look at her. "I'll help. Not for you. If Shepard asked, I'd put a knife to your back. I owe her that much. I find you're jerking me around? She won't have to ask."

"Try it," she says through clenched teeth.

His eyes go cold, mandibles flicking two hard clicks, huffing. Then he's gone, disappearing into the shadowy bowels of the Normandy.

* * *

Commander Shepard is behind schedule.

It affords her and the clone more time to prepare. On the other hand, the Collectors are gathering people en-masse. Humanity can't afford to waste time. If this continues there won't be any 'humanity' left. She reads through the data packets she's received from the Normandy, silently thanking the pioneer of quantum entanglement communications for allowing untraceable transmissions. Certainly nothing EDI would be able to pick up.

Hope smiles indulgently, wondering if The Illusive Man's pet has realized that she brought back the wrong person. Hope doesn't want Shepard to fail. She acknowledges that the clone isn't ready yet to tackle the Collectors. Commander Shepard is only a stand-in, the study, until the clone is ready to make her debut. Knowing that doesn't make her any less giddy about Miranda's failure.

She turns on the television, punching in the appropriate set of numbers for the vidcall. Three rings in and she sees a haze of white noise and a woman wrapped in inky shadows, hood masking the majority of her features except for an impish smile. "Whoever this is, I'm impressed. Now tell me who you are and how you managed to get through my firewalls to actually connect with me."

Hope reclines on the couch, smiling. "On top of the rose you've added a hood to your repertoire? How very cloak and dagger of you."

"Sasha?" Kasumi clears up the white noise and pushes the hood back from her face. Hope hasn't seen Kasumi in years but the woman hasn't aged a day, looking as young as she did the last time the two saw one another. "I'll be damned. It's really you." She ties her hair up and leans into the desk she has her computer mounted on. "It's been a while. Still up to your old tricks?"

"I don't know any other way."

The two spent some of their teenage years together, breaking and entering into the homes of the affluent. Kasumi preferred to take artworks: paintings, sculptures, renowned handwritten novels. She'd always had an appreciation for beauty, for the way a piece of art could evoke emotion, could trigger feelings and memories long forgotten and buried. Hope had been more practical, enjoying, instead, finding quick buyers, putting potential clients in a bidding war, extracting the most possible amount of money she could from them before moving on and doing it again. The thrill was breaking in and getting away, the excitement was rendering security systems obsolete.

Kasumi could always dismantle them. Breaking through firewalls became so commonplace it became boring. When Kasumi began teaching Hope some of her tech savvy, they really had to step up their game to get their thrills. Eventually Kasumi began daring them to break into places, security systems intact. It was reckless but it was _fun_. Sometimes alarms would be triggered. Getting in would be the easy part. Getting out would be fun. They had close calls with the police but they never got caught. They would return to one of their apartments (or just break into somebody else's) and laugh, drink, party and begin to plot their next excursion.

They eventually parted ways; Kasumi choosing to build a collection of priceless artworks and focus on Keiji, who they met towards the end of their time together. No longer able to sell off the works they acquired together, they had some small argument and stopped working together. When the Illusive Man told Hope that he needed strong, creative, exceptional individuals to stop whatever force it was that was taking human colonies, Kasumi naturally came to mind.

"You were always a bit of a troublemaker. That's probably why we got along so well," Kasumi admits.

"I heard about Keiji," Hope says. Kasumi's eyes flick to the side, no doubt thinking of him, full lips thinning slightly. "I'm sorry." Kasumi nods and Hope knows that Kasumi doesn't want to get into it. Kasumi was always endlessly energetic and cheerful but more reserved about personal matters. "You've built up quite the reputation. What are you doing with yourself these days?"

"Sitting on my ass waiting for the great Commander Shepard, apparently," she says, some irritation touching her voice. So her informant is right, then. Kasumi Goto isn't on the Normandy yet.

"I thought Commander Shepard was dead," Hope says dutifully.

"You'd think that. A few months ago I was made an offer I couldn't refuse. The credits on this thing alone is more than anything we ever managed to collect in all the years we worked together," Kasumi teases a finger along her lips thoughtfully. Hope makes a sound to convey that she's impressed by the sum though she knows what it is. "I honor my contracts. But do you know how much work I've had to pass up waiting for this?"

"You've never been much of a patient girl."

"Yeah, I get carried away," she grins, "but… it isn't about the credits. This Commander Shepard is going to help me get back Keiji's graybox. I'd do it for free for that alone," she puts a hand to her mouth as if to whisper, "but don't tell them that."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She lifts her head, staring curiously. "Hey. Who's that standing behind you?"

Hope kills the vidcall and looks back. The clone is standing behind her, a bowl of cereal in hand. Hope frowns. The clone moves more and more quietly by the day. Hope imagines that she should be impressed but it can be disconcerting when she isn't expecting her. The clone crashes on the couch next to her, chewing thoughtfully on star shaped cereal with moon marshmallows. "Who was that?" the clone asks.

"A future squad member, if all goes according to plan." She rests against the armrest of the couch, appraising her. The clone has a fondness for tanktops and hoodies, particularly the old Cerberus one Hope threw at her long ago. "Don't come out if you hear me on a vidcall." The clone shrugs. "We can't have you discovered just yet."

"If _She's_ the fake why do _I_ have to hide?"

"Because you aren't ready. And you have a face that will launch ships," Hope smiles wryly to herself, thinking how much easier things will be once they get the clone on the Normandy. That won't be for some time yet. Hope is careful in her plotting of time. It would not be good to rush ahead. That was another disagreement she and Kasumi often had. Hope liked to meticulously plan. Kasumi enjoyed leaving things to chance. There's a beat. "I've found a viable N7 alternative for you. It's more of a preparation for the program, just as arduous. More so, sometimes. It comes with a big price tag. I think you're worth the investment." The clone finishes the bowl of cereal, setting it down on the coffee table and watching her. "That's what I've been working on for the past few weeks. Getting your application in order, ironing out all the little details of your life."

"Little details…?" The clone takes the datapad that Hope passes to her. She scrolls through the data for several minutes, brow knit thoughtfully before her jaw clenches. "None of this is true." Panic begins to flare along her features and Hope, for the life of her, can't figure out why. She thrusts the datapad back at her and Hope takes it without thinking.

"We can't put down Commander Shepard's information. And you don't have nearly enough to fill out thirty-two years worth."

"Is that how old I am?"

Hope hesitates. "Yes."

"Why don't I remember anything? Why isn't it already written somewhere? Why do we have to make up everything about me as if I don't exist?"

The clone's anxiety grows with every question she asks, her eyes mercilessly boring into Hope's, demanding answers that Hope isn't ready to give, that the clone isn't ready to hear. Hope has always found comfort in the non-committalness of aliases. How bothersome that the clone seeks so strongly to hold on to an identity, reacts to it like some child with a safety blanket. "This is only temporary. You won't go without an identity for too much longer." It's true, in a sense. When she assumes the role of Jane Shepard, she won't go without an identity ever again.

The clone narrows her eyes. "You're talking about _Her, _aren't you?"

"Don't act like a child," Hope says. The clone's hazel eyes are near-green. She no longer bristles with biotic power but Hope feels the hair of her arms stand on end with the energy the clone gives off. Hope throws the datapad at her and stands. "Feel free to pick out a name for yourself. That's the last part of your application." The clone gets to her feet, datapad in hand, staring at it as if it were some holy relic. "You don't have to do it right away. Sometimes it takes hours to choose just the right name. Whatever you pick, don't get attached. It won't be who you are. Not really."

She walks away, hoping to read more of the data that is constantly streaming in. If only she had a network like the Shadow Broker's. Everything would be infinitely easier. It might, in some ways, be dull but she can't argue that it'd be efficient. She's nearly to the bedroom door when she's spun around and pressed hard against the wall. Hope feels the particular texture of this wall press against her back, the small ridges of the paint, the tiny, pointed edges.

The clone holds her there and Hope doesn't try to get loose, knowing she won't go free unless the clone lets her. The clone presses her forearm to Hope's chest, pinning her down. Hope looks steadily into her eyes as the clone's chest rises and falls, as her eyes take on a hint of blue. "Well then." Hope says. "What are you going to do?"

The clone is remarkably strong. The pressure of the clone's arm against her chest is like some crushing vise. The clone presses her mouth to Hope's, a clumsy attempt at reproducing what she has no doubt seen on her many vids. Though the clone has forcefully held her down, her kiss is gentle.

Hope lets it happen without reciprocating until the clone pulls back, looking pitiful and sad. Hope cocks her head, chin tilted up and looks at her. The clone's expression changes from sadness to anger. "Kiss me back," the clone says. Her voice shifts from soft, to hard and authoritative, so fluidly it always takes Hope aback. Hope says nothing. The clone presses their faces together, her arm more tightly against her than ever. "Open your mouth and kiss me back." It's a demand.

When the clone kisses her again, Hope closes her eyes and parts her lips. The clone kisses her deep, her tongue hot and electric against her own. It tastes like sugar. The marshmallows, Hope thinks absently. Eventually the arm pinning Hope falls away. Hope is left with a near-paralyzing heat threading like a current through her. Their mouths separate and the clone looks at her intently. "I am not a child."

She leaves her there, returning to the datapad on the couch. Hope, trying to even her breathing, retires to the bedroom to catch up on her reading.


	6. Grace

A/N: This is a long chapter. It was actually meant to have more in it but I had to save it for the next chapter. This story (since last chapter?) is now rated M so M-rated situations will arise. Reader beware! As always, many, many thanks to my kind reviewers- and you wonderful anonymous ones I can't PM my thanks! Also many thanks to the Allusive Man for being a bigger Bioware nerd than me and letting me know what is off, continuing to be my creative consultant and also for being my beta. Shepard and the Normandy crew next chapter! Which will also be long.

* * *

It isn't the blare of the cab alarm that wakes Hope, or even the garish neon-colored lights, blinking frenetically out the safehouse window. The clone is on the bed beside her, fingers trailing feather-lightly along her face, rousing her to wake. Hope's never been a deep sleeper and these days she has more reason than ever to be cautious and on the alert.

The clone has not kissed her again, nor has Hope thought to press their lips together. The clone, however, has moved back into the bedroom, often complaining of uncomfortable couches and the importance of being well-rested. Hope calls bullshit but not to the clone's face. The clone has been relatively well-behaved despite the mounting hunger in her eyes when she looks at Hope.

Hope can see the advantages of having the clone in her thrall. What she sees more clearly, however, are how the clone's affections could impede their progress and make them both soft. Hope can further admit, when she's alone and aching for more adult company, how convenient it would be to have a woman who was all in one: the savior of humanity, protégé, lover, equal. These thoughts are brief and discarded as whimsies. It doesn't work like that, nor can it for a very long time, if ever.

This is the first time the clone has dared lay hand on her since the kiss. The action confused and shook Hope. It was a sign of aggression, of dominance. That was the arm. Her mouth was something else. It was what marks the clone as soft and weak, no matter how Hope may have taken any other and maneuvered them to the wall, to claim their mouth again.

The clone's eyes are half-closed, a small smile pulling her lips despite the thoughtful expression on her face. Hope straightens her back on the bed, shifting slightly to face her. The clone responds by easing Hope's hair back behind her ear. She scoots closer, fingers tickling along Hope's hand, lips hovering over Hope's own.

"Today's the big day," Hope says, her voice foggy with sleep.

It has the intended affect, to dislodge them both from the charged moment, and replace it with the slow dawn of their good news. Today _is_ the big day. They will take a shuttle to the Elite training academy, operated by CAT6. Former Ns and N7s work as instructors. Like the N7 program, it is an honor and a privilege to be accepted. Unlike the N7 program, the missions are real from the get-go and students are sent out to the front lines. Instructors are harsh and unsympathetic. Most students leave and are ridiculed for it. Some die. Hope has made it clear that the clone is to complete her training and do so in exemplary fashion.

"I'll have a name. I'll make my name." The clone smiles though Hope frowns. The clone had taken an inordinate amount of time choosing her name. As much as Hope would like for her 'alias' surname to be 'Shepard', she knows it can't be risked. The two women are identical.

"It's not your real name," Hope reminds her gently. The clone, unfortunately, is more receptive to softly cloaked words than hard edges of anger.

"Say it. Say my name," it isn't a demand. It's a request. Hope smiles wryly, thinking of her naiveté. She pushes the chocolate colored strands from the clone's face and breathes her name. It isn't a sign of intimacy. Hope doesn't want to declare it too surely. The clone smiles, her touch whispering along Hope's skin again, leaving a trail of fire.

Hope's brow furrows further at her body's betrayal. She puts a hand to the clone's chest. "Let's get ready." The clone stares at her before happily leaving the bed and starting to gather her things.

* * *

The shuttle circles the black sky, stars bright and pulsing. The air is howling, making the shuttle rock back and forth. A storm's moving in. There's nowhere to land. The clone slips into the parachute, anticipating when the shuttle will move violently and adjusting, maintaining her balance.

When she's finished making adjustments to the belts and harness, she grabs on to an overhead handle and looks at Hope, seemingly lost. Hope smiles inwardly. It wasn't so long ago that she was excited, now she can see nerves are starting to take over.

Hope takes a breath and begins to double-check the parachute, testing the buckles, seeing if everything is cinched tightly enough. She almost spills out the open door but the clone quickly wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. Hope swears inwardly but allows it, quickly finishing her inspection before dropping her hands from the harness.

The clone doesn't release her. "What will you do?" She averts her eyes. "I won't see you for months."

"I'll keep myself occupied, as you will. It won't seem as if any time has passed at all."

"I don't see why I have to do this."

"You've been looking forward to this for weeks," Hope points out. The clone frowns, still refusing to face her. Hope notices the looks the agitated pilot keeps giving them. They're wasting fuel circling like this while the clone decides to suddenly have doubts. Hope touches the clone's face delicately but still she doesn't look at her. "Grace." That's the trick. The clone turns to her, eyes baring her emotions. So many of them. So many Achilles' Heels. "It doesn't matter what you have to do down there. All that matters is that you come out on top and you come back to me safe. All right?"

Grace nods. Hope presses her lips to the clone's and kisses her hot and carnal. Incentive. The clone is taken aback. She learns quickly and gingerly brings her hands to Hope's face. The action releases Hope from her hold and the kiss continues feverishly until Hope feels the fire forming in her belly.

She shoves Grace out of the shuttle before it can spread. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, trying to take the chill of the night into her. When she looks out the shuttle door, she can only see black and the tops of trees. Hopefully the clone won't be speared on one of them. Hopefully she'll return stronger and colder than ever.

She grips the shuttle door handle and slams the door shut.

* * *

The first ninety-six hours are spent in a four-by-four cell with concrete floors and walls. There's a toilet but there's no bed. Bright fluorescent lights glare down at her. She isn't allowed to sleep. Soldiers, or wardens, the clone can't decide, enter the cell in blue and grey camouflaged fatigues, prodding her with the end of their rifles every time she starts to drift off to sleep. She wonders why Hope put her here. Why she has to be here. Everything moves in slow motion, frame-by-frame, in an array of bright colors.

She rests against the wall, eyes raw and stinging.

She loses track of time. All she has are the walls and the mud and dirt that caked to her arms and legs when she landed. One moment she closes her eyes. The next there's a glass of water, reminding her that her throat is dry as the desert. Two uniformed guards stand at the door.

"Drink up, Morgan." They say, their voices thin behind their helmets. "Your throat must be hurting by now."

She reaches for the glass.

"All of this can be over. One sip and you're out of here."

She hesitates.

"Most of the guys who came in with you are gone." He whistles. It sounds, strange and eerie. "No shame in throwing in the towel." One of the soldiers picks up the glass and moves it closer to her. She pulls back, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"Ah, she's tough," the other says with a laugh. "Looks kinda like Shepard Jr., doesn't she?"

The other soldier laughs derisively. "Fuck Shepard. Bitch slugged me once for putting a hand on a recruit's ass."

The clone perks to attention but they exit, slamming the door behind them. They leave the glass of water.

Time begins to lose meaning. Her mouth continues to dry, her saliva becoming thick and mucous like. She swallows desperately and stares at the glass of water. A headache that feels like the crack of a rifle hilt on her skull emerges. She starts to hear things. She makes herself focus.

She toys with the memory of Hope's lips, full and soft against her own. But even that isn't enough to distract her, to keep her awake, to fight the pain that has seized her stomach. She's so hungry she retches but there's nothing to throw up, leaving her throat coated with acid.

The guards always come the instant she turns. Now, beside the glass of water, a plate of food. Looks like dog food, smells like heaven. She thinks, idly, that if they asked her to kill for a plate of food she would do it.

They open the small window to her door. "Eat up, Morgan. Hardly any of you left now." His expressionless helmet bores into her. She crawls closer and hears Hope, hears the anger and disappointment in her voice if she takes a drink, if she eats. What does she want her to do? Does she want her to die in here? She feels like she's dying. She knows that she's dying. Her face feels jagged. She picks up the plate and throws it against the door. She does the same with the glass, to fight temptation. Glass litters the floor. Brown meat slides in chunks against the wall and onto the floor.

She paces. She watches the door whir open an unidentifiable amount of time later. Another plate of food. Another glass of water. She shakes. How long will they keep her in here? Is it a joke? Is this a trick? Did Hope send her here to kill her? Why not do it herself? Why do it at all?

Another prodding guard. "Keep those eyes open, Morgan." They shake her shoulders, keeping her awake. She wonders if she's supposed to kill them. Is she supposed to kill them? She could kill them, take their uniform, sneak out. Eat. She could eat.

_You can't go anywhere. You're not finished._ She isn't sure when Hope walks in. She does. Straddles her. Kisses her. Puts her hands beneath her shirt, ripping it off. She wants her. More than that fucking glass of water. More than food. More than air.

She blinks at the sound of water. Lifts her face. Warmth. A soldier is relieving himself at her feet. He notices her noticing, faces her. Looks at her. The clone doesn't know how but she knows he's watching. He shifts, standing straighter, flaccid penis in hand, pissing on her chest and arms. "Thought you needed a shower, Shepard Jr.," he says.

The door shuts with a clank. The clone hears laughter and turns. There's no one else. She walks on hands and knees, over the piss to the water and food. She stays on hands and knees, as if in prayer.

_Go ahead, Grace. It's all right._

It sounds just like her. It feels just like her. Nibbling on her ear. But Hope would never tell her to alleviate the pain. Hope would never just let it _stop_. Hope likes to hurt her.

No, that isn't true.

Hope wants her to be strong. She doesn't feel strong. She buckles to the floor, her lips cracking and bleeding. Her mouth is like sandpaper. And her cell smells like piss. She smells like piss. She thinks, idly, about killing all of them. She could do it. She could do it.

"Keep those eyes open, Morgan!" She hears a guard shout and bang repeatedly against the door until her ears ring. It's only when the turian and batarian rush in, pinning her to the wall that she screams, swinging her fists wildly, slamming them into the walls, punching, punching until her arms are sore, until her knuckles are bleeding, until they're juice at her feet, smears on the wall.

Every visual is a snapshot. She heaves breathing, throat tasting of blood. They're not there. They're not there. She goes to the door, bangs against it, starts to shout that they let her out. Bites the words back somehow. They leave another plate of food and water.

She's rocking back and forth, head in her hands when she hears the grinding of gears. The door to the cell rolls smoothly to an open and clanks to a lock. "Morgan, Grace!" The soldier bellows. Grace looks up at him. He wears a helmet, the blue lights making his eyes luminescent blue orbs. He flings a duffle bag at her. "Congratulations, maggot. Time to run laps." She stares at him. Her legs feel numb. "Are you _deaf_?" His voice is hollow and far away. "On your feet!"

She stands, feeling like air, legs rubbery. The duffle bag weighs over one hundred pounds. She's lightheaded but straps it on over her shoulders. "Move it!" he shouts, crowding behind her, pushing her and though his face is covered, she can nearly feel his spittle along her face and neck. She wonders if she's hallucinating.

* * *

The following weeks are grueling. They train in the scalding heat, in rain that falls so hard it feels like needles piercing the skin. They go twenty-two, sometimes twenty-three hours a day, sleeping only an hour or two before doing it all over again.

Day by day their numbers fall. Those who remain have shadows under their eyes and any shine or spark that was once to be had fades to something cold and metallic. People collapse in the middle of runs, their legs giving out from beneath them, faces buried in the mud, their packs holding them down. Sometimes they suffocate that way. Sometimes their hearts just give out.

They aren't allowed to linger. "Move it, Morgan! Move, move, move!" shouted into her ears until they ring. She moves because Hope would want her to move. Hope would want her to forget the person in the muck. She doesn't always agree with her. Grace doesn't think a person should be reduced to the sum of their parts; to just a body.

The N7 and N instructors are unforgiving. They hang the candidates upside down by their legs, blindfold and spin, push, punch, kick and give them a gun, give them their mark. Disoriented and hurting, they have one second to take the shot. If they miss, they're out. If they don't shoot, they're out. If they kill someone, they're out. They lose a few that way, bullets gone errant that strike into skulls and spines. Some leave on stretchers, others in bodybags. Goodbyes are forbidden.

Grace gets through. _By the skin of your teeth,_ Volkova hisses at her. Grace ignores her. Volkova doesn't like anyone.

* * *

They have ten minutes for chow time, each of the candidates ripping eagerly into the MREs that are provided. Grace uses the plastic fork to touch on the crumbling, too dry rice. A bite verifies that it has no taste. She tears open a few salt and pepper packets but they do little to help.

Floyd takes a seat beside her, uninvited. He's a senior candidate, tall with wide shoulders and bigger arms than she's ever seen. He's got a dark head of hair and a trim beard. His eyes are grey. His smiles are easygoing. She sees candidates watch him during chow time. Other candidates avoid his gaze. They say he keeps trophies from missions.

Grace ignores him, finding battle a far more familiar language than casual conversation. Fortunately there's been little time for talk. Chow time is ten minutes. It always feels like an eternity. It's easier when Hope talks at her. How is Hope? Where is Hope?

"I've been watching you," Floyd says. Grace doesn't remember his first name. It might be Jack or Jeff. Jason? "You're not bad for a woman." He pauses. Is it supposed to be a compliment? "They weren't kidding about the resemblance." Grace buries the fork in the rice and has another bite to discourage conversation. He touches her hair and she slaps his hand away. He lifts his arms in surrender. "Settle down," he smiles.

She means to tell him not to touch her. Instead, she stands, taking her tray with her, dumping it and exiting the mess. She regrets it later, when her stomach clenches in hunger.

* * *

They sleep in what look like cells but are really just concrete holes in the wall with rolling mats on the floor. Grace wakes one night to squashed groans and follows the sound. It turns out to be nothing. Volkova has a gagged, shirtless candidate cuffed to a pipe in the wall, his arms crudely tied with plastic zip ties. The naked light bulb swings overhead, flickering like a firefly.

There's a collection of knives on the floor, some of the blades red and wet. Grace has heard Volkova has a thing for them. Volkova's eyes burn, entranced as she draws the blade slowly along his stomach. His skin flushes red with blood. He strains against his restraints, pulling at the pipe, another groan ripping through him before he convulses.

Grace's shadow swings from side to side on the wall. It's only then that Volkova notices her. "Training," she says to Grace in her thick, Russian accent. Volkova is a senior candidate. It does seem like a quirk of the program.

She leaves them and falls to sleep, able to ignore the groans of the man. She tries to grasp at the small time left for her to sleep and catches it for a few minutes. She wakes with weight on her chest, a hand to her forehead, a knife to her neck. Volkova's eyes are pale and blue, like a husk's. "If you think to spy on me again," she says quietly, "I will rip your fucking throat open."

Grace doesn't move. She wonders if she misinterpreted the situation earlier. Her heart batters against her chest. "All right," she finally says. It's what Hope has liked for her to say. It has a disarming finality to it, the white flag of conversations. Volkova narrows her eyes to slits, her eyes every bit as sharp as her knives. She's pulled her weight off the clone when Grace springs, grabbing fierce hold of the arm with the knife and slamming Volkova face first into the wall. She hears a crunch. Volkova makes a pained sound, more beautiful than any sonata. Her knife clatters to the floor. Grace brings her lips to Volkova's ear. "And if you come near me or anyone else with your little toys again? I'll turn you into a _fucking_ knife holder. All right?"

Volkova scampers out like a dog with its tail between its legs. Grace shakes but she doesn't sleep. She'd expected this sort of behavior from aliens, not humans. It's disconcerting.

* * *

They're placed into squads of four. Grace is the junior candidate. Floyd and Volkova are the team leads. Volkova's face, usually the color of lilies is bruised and colorful, nose twisted where it wasn't before. She glares at her but doesn't talk to her unless she has to. Grace doesn't acknowledge anything happened.

The other candidate is one that Grace hasn't met before: Santos. Tall, blond and with a dash of stubble, he reminds Grace of an actor on t.v. and vids. He sits next to her on the bucket seat of the shuttle and she braces herself for what is sure to be another arduous exercise in socializing. "You don't talk much," he says. Grace plants her back firmly against the seat and draws a slow breath. "What's your story, Shepard Jr.?" Her jaw tenses and he smiles good-naturedly. "Hey, it's not an insult."

Floyd stands some feet away, hanging onto an overhead handle. He's a tower of menacing muscle. The other candidates say he's on the juice, they whisper that most of the candidates are. Shreds of jealousy and worry creep through their voices. His scores are intimidating. Floyd wears a helmet with black lights where his eyes should be. Lumps of cole. Grace feels his eyes on her and shifts. "I have a name." It's temporary and she'll have to give it up. The thought rips at her, making her feel hollow.

Santos laughs. "You can bet your ass I'd take 'Shepard' if I could. Heard she's back. Alliance gave her up for dead." Grace shrugs in response, her stomach churning. "They give up on everyone before their time," bitterness colors his words but the shuttle rocks to a stop and they're all on their feet.

Volkova and Santos rush out. Grace can feel the icy air settle against her hard suit. Floyd crushes Grace's arm before she can step out. "You're on me," he says. Grace tries to yank her arm away but he holds on tight.

* * *

They storm freighters, appearing from nowhere and commandeering air ships. They raid slaver bases—kill a lot of batarians that way. They lose themselves in sweltering jungles, finding pockets of smuggled arms and ammunition, worth a fortune to some. Turians are hard to kill but Floyd doesn't ever stop. He plants his knee on their necks, taking a knife from his back and hacking away at their mandibles while they scream. Grace is torn. Floyd whistles.

It's mission after mission, planet after planet. Some are icy, others so dry their noses start bleeding once they step out of the shuttle. They dive through oceans, parachute onto military bases. They re-arrange power balances. Blow up a lot of shit.

Sometimes they board discarded freighters in zero gravity. One time they find geth. The squad looks to Grace as if she's supposed to have answers. She takes lead, more out of instinct than any know how. They get out alive and Grace is happy to share something in common with Shepard, despite her shadow hanging over her head like the grim reaper.

They can't stop long.

They have orders. Some follow better than others. Volkova still prefers her knives. She's small and quick and can sneak up on a man, bleeding him dry before he realizes he's been cut.

Santos prefers to choke them out, his captive's legs kicking at the air, Santos' face going as red as his prey's before they go still and he lays them carefully to the ground. Grace thinks that's nicer. Polite and clean.

They move through corridors, hallways, deserts, fortresses, in teams of two. All Floyd needs is a hit to the throat to crush a windpipe. He likes that. He's surprisingly quiet for a large man, taking a person's head in his hands and twisting until there's a snap and they crumple like a doll.

Grace doesn't have an m.o. Biotics aren't usually an option. Too loud and flashy. She carries a new model, stolen from the Alliance, a whisper quiet M-11 Suppressor pistol that she gently presses to the back of an enemy combatant's head. An homage to Hope, maybe. Grace feels remorse that there isn't a higher power she believes in, to send them with prayers on their way. Maybe she only feels guilty. She was told to do whatever it takes. She will do whatever it takes.

They're mercenaries. They're pirates. No matter their alignment, it requires the spilling of blood. Sometimes they're heroes. Sometimes they're terrorists. It makes Grace feel a little bit like Commander Shepard. Maybe that was the whole point anyway.

* * *

Sleep is impossible to find. Outgoing communications to contacts are blocked. Grace has been away from Hope almost as long as she's known her (or anything). Every base they hit becomes a tomb, bodies stinking up the air until they wait for their next objective.

Grace walks the blood-splattered hallways, listening to the hollow echoes of her steps. A sound puts her instantly on the alert and she narrows her eyes, thinking that it's impossible they missed someone. Thorough. They must be thorough. She withdraws the sidearm and presses to the wall, rounding the corner. A tangle of bodies. No, two.

Volkova. Santos. She's on top. His arms are wrapped around her back as she pivots her hips with purpose. She notices that Volkova's normally tied up hair is long, loose, flaxen in the light, before she realizes what it is that she's walked in on. Her mouth is arid. There's something primitive about the act. Suddenly she's assaulted by facts, triggered, as they usually are, by visual or auditory cues.

She's entranced, against her better nature, incapable of looking away from the two, carved as if from marble, infinitely softer. When Santos sees her, Grace flushes with hot shame, her body electric as a live wire. He doesn't turn his eyes, nor does he cease his activity. Grace wonders if this is what friends do, what they share, why neither of them can look away, why Santos becomes more passionate still. It confuses her and she turns sharply, running into a wall. Not a wall.

Floyd, who takes her and pins her to an actual wall. There's a rod in the front of his pants, large, menacing, pressing to the inside of her thigh through their pants. He slams her wrists above her head, gripping her painfully. Panic shoots into her like a knife but she buries it and meets his eyes. They're like glass. "Touch it," he says.

Grace almost asks what 'it' is and is somewhat relieved she doesn't; having had enough embarrassing social faux pas'. Cold settles over her like frost, burrowing into her like worms. Her heart rams into her chest, her pulse so loud she can barely hear herself. "No." He squeezes her wrists harder. They'll be black in the morning, she realizes. Another attempt to pull them away fails. She breathes in slowly through her mouth, making herself calm. "Take it out," she says calmly.

He smiles. Handsome. He keeps her arms pinned with one hand and undoes his belts, zipper with the other. He takes it out. Santos has vid-star looks, Floyd has porn-vid appendages. Some part of her registers that he's amply sized, nothing to be ashamed about. He holds it out to her, like a diploma. Some rite of passage. She smiles a little at that and he smiles further, pleased, a measure of relief playing on his features.

"My hands," she reminds him. He lets her go, his legs shoulder width apart. She brings her hand to it experimentally. She's seen videos but it isn't as if she's ever done this. No, she has, she corrects herself, she doesn't remember. That's what Hope would say. His penis throbs in her hand and she gives it a few strokes. He groans before taking her hand, roughly spitting on it and bringing it back down. Somehow that's more offensive than anything.

A few more strokes, a few soft swears and then he calls her Shepard. Not Morgan, not Grace, not Shepard Jr. It has its advantages. She can pretend she's someone else. She reminds herself to apologize to Hope for crushing her to a wall. It had felt natural and good but it was out of line. She hadn't known that then but she knows it now. Things must be consensual. She understands that Floyd hasn't given her a choice.

She strokes one more time and then twists her hand savagely. He screams. "You crazy—!" Another twist and he's on his knees, useless, moaning painfully. "Jesus, fuck—," incomprehensible language. Tears spring to his eyes.

She brings her lips to his ear. "If you come near me again outside of a mission I'm going to take your dick as a trophy and feed it to the varren in the next shit hole planet we land on."

She's still gripping him when Volkova and Santos rush out in a panic, guns at the ready.

* * *

The Mako is impossible to drive. It's a shitty, heavy clunker that manages to be flimsy at the same time. Santos sits beside her in the front, gripping the handlebar above him for dear life. He'd tried apologizing for the incident with Volkova but Grace stopped him, not knowing what there was to apologize about.

They grind over an icy mountain. The vehicle flips on its side. "Goddamn it, Shepard!" Volkova shouts at her from the back seat as Floyd slams into her.

"It's _Morgan_," Grace won't apologize when none of the bastards bother to use her name. "You try driving this piece of shit." She pushes a few buttons, sweating as she maneuvers it back onto its wheels. They continue the slow push up the mountain, the vehicle rolling onto its roof several times due to its flimsy mechanics. Floyd and Volkova become more vocal by the moment. Santos gives her strained, encouraging smiles.

"You're going to fucking kill us before we get to the distress beacon," Floyd shouts at her.

Grace squares her shoulders and ignores him, managing to get them down to the other side of the mountain. The land is vast and flat, an unending sea of hard ice that glitters blindingly in the pale sun. Santos pulls a pair of sunglasses from his suit and puts them on, grinning at her. Grace smiles without knowing it. "Maybe you should drive," she tells him.

"Enough chatter, lets get moving," Floyd complains. He's been a dick since Grace nearly snapped his off. The Mako whines its way forward, kicking up chunks of ice as it forges forward. They drive for what seems like forever before Floyd signals they stop.

They slip into their helmets and clamber out. Grace's skin numbs immediately from the cold. "Stay frosty," Santos jokes. Floyd looks at him for a long time before the group advances. There's a crashed ship encased in ice. A distress signal, as tall as they are spins, emitting a sonic beep. Grace frowns at it and the skeletal remains of the ship, sadness tugging at her.

"This was a waste of time," Volkova touches a hand to the distress signal and sighs. "Why would they send us here?" She demands to Floyd. They get into an argument.

Grace takes in the barren, arctic land, her breath fogging against her helmet. They only have so much oxygen and the chill is sinking to her bones. There's a tremor beneath her feet. It isn't imagined and it's growing stronger by the moment. She looks around but sees nothing. Volkova and Floyd are still sniping at each other. The ice is coming apart ahead of her, in waves, moving faster by the moment.

"Watch your six!" Grace warns them, but no sooner are the words out of her mouth that the ground erupts in a shower of dirt and ice, flinging them back. They're on their feet just as quickly, not immediately aware of what it is that has happened. The sunlight has been taken, their unit drenched in shadows.

Floyd's air supply has been cut, it must have happened in the fall or due to some chunk of rock—the back of his helmet blinks red. He has no reservation about stealing Santos' helmet, leaving the candidate panicked and fighting for air. The helmet is the least of their worries. Grace looks up she sees what she feared—a thresher maw.

Grace is ready to shout when a piercing shriek pierces the frigid skies and further disorients them. She rips the helmet from her head and throws it at Santos before yelling at the paralyzed, gaping group to run. They're sitting ducks in the open space. The thresher maw dives into the ground, nearly knocking them on their asses again. They keep their balance, somehow and go.

They sprint, fumbling for the Mako. Grace's limbs and lungs burn. The air is thin. She has never been so terrified. It isn't the thresher maw, though that doesn't help. It's the cold wrapping around her like a blanket, the numbness seizing her, the crippling sensation of the air being ripped from her lungs. A memory that isn't.

"Ready weapons!" She orders and sees them lift their assault rifles and grenades. Volkova has her sniper rifle. It's hard to breathe and Grace verges dangerously close to hyperventilating. The thresher maw springs from the ground again, mouth large enough to bite into the Mako. It rears its head back and Grace knows it's getting ready to spew venom. Santos is loosing a stream of obscenities as his trigger finger keeps squeezing, bullets tearing through the air at the creature. When the thresher maw projectile vomits the toxin, there's nowhere to hide. Grace doesn't need to see their faces to know the squad is terrified; they'd have to be out of their minds not to be.

She waits for the horrendous burn of the acid but it doesn't hit.

Grace's nose bursts a fountain of blood, freezing almost instantly to her lips and mouth. A searing headache like a cleaver going into her skull nearly blinds her. It's only after that she realizes she's lifted the Mako to shield the attack. She isn't used to the exertion but she feels it all over her body, squeezing, making her muscles burn and strain. Her knees and shoulders buckle as if she had physically lifted the vehicle.

Someone says that they're going to die. Grace isn't sure who but she drops the Mako to the icy terrain at the words, unable to maintain the effort. "Keep it together! This isn't over yet!" Head pounding, she withdraws the M-77 Paladin strapped to her side, pointing it at the thresher maw, all three of them that move into one before separating again. She knows which of the three is real. She shoots, ducking behind the crashed Mako and hurling a warp field in the maw's direction before detonating it a moment later in a loud boom.

The dry blood on her face has the consistency of toothpaste. She spits a glob of blood to the side, taking careful shots. The reassuring sound of bullets rip through the skies, drawing screeches from the monster. She is grateful to her squad. She is grateful for Hope's tutelage. She understands why now. It makes moving through the dizzying pain bearable. It hurt Grace before. But maybe it's Hope's way of caring about her.

It doesn't matter. Maybe Hope doesn't care about her. Maybe Hope doesn't have to care about her. If she's strong, if she can survive, she can become unstoppable, untouchable, unkillable. Her feelings won't matter then.

* * *

Bekenstein: where the rich go to piss their money away. It is a playground for millionaires and billionaires, glittering and beautiful on the surface with an underside as seedy as Omega. It's humanity's version of Illium without all the fine print.

There's something contemptuous and artificial about the planet. Its shine is similar to all the quality products it exports to the Citadel: glinting from the distance, duller up close. It has all the dazzle of a particularly effective ad campaign, some vid of a fantasy life where you can buy anything you desire as long as you have the creds to back it up. Now drawn, like moths to a flame, the damn asari have invaded the planet.

Parties and galas are the norm. Hope moves like a butterfly through them, meeting new contacts, determining who has worth and who doesn't. Unlike the citizens of Bekenstein, she does not make her determination by their wealth—though Bekenstein has few of those who don't have any.

Donovan Hock is an obvious asset but Hope avoids him and his parties. She tells herself it isn't out of some allegiance to Kasumi or Keiji. They were friends but business is business after all. She isn't in the market for weapons or art. That's all there is to it.

It's been nearly six months since the clone went to the academy. In that time Hope has monitored Commander Shepard's progress. The quarian has been secured, so has the asari justicar, Zaeed Massani and at long last, Kasumi.

Shepard is beginning to settle—or at least, she isn't beating the hell out of her own squad. Has Miranda gotten control of her pet at last? Hope tries not to worry. It is a weight off her shoulders to think that Shepard won't simply let the Collectors come in and take all humans. But that isn't what the reports have been. Yes, Shepard has completed the team but she still isn't moving as quickly as she could be.

It isn't Hope's only focus. There are more pressing matters on her mind. Cerberus is on the move and they're gunning for her. The tracker imbedded in the clone's arm not only tracks her location but her vital signs as well. The first ninety-six hours at the academy were worrisome. Hope isn't exactly sure what she was made to endure though she suspects some sort of psychological test was put into place. After that she proceeded as expected.

It has been strange being apart from her. She wonders if the clone is excelling as she ought to. Training at the academy differs by individual. Some leave, some die, others graduate and are offered a place in the CAT6 squad.

Hope won't believe that she failed. She won't believe that the clone wouldn't return. The clone's sentimental attachment is useful in that way. Has the academy given her some sense of independence? Does she believe she doesn't need her anymore? Or has Cerberus discovered her and she's on the run? Hope frowns at the thought. They can't have discovered her. If they had they would be no match for her. Hope tells herself that.

Her own mortality is a different matter altogether. In between trying to assess Shepard's situation and whatever the clone's may be, she has been moving from planet to planet, safehouse to safehouse, eluding Cerberus. They aren't sending the Blue Suns anymore, those she's dealt with. Now she's beginning to see a side of Cerberus she never spent much time with before: their heavily fortified militia.

She hacks into the surveillance feeds of whatever planet she lands on when it's an option. Bekenstein is almost as heavily monitored as Illium and provides a mine of data. Hope has seen only glimpses. The Illusive Man isn't a fool; his soldiers undergo massive psychological conditioning to make them more than just brute force. They are fearless and tactically superior to Alliance soldiers. The last thing she needs is to engage a handful of troopers only to end up flanked by engineers and guardians.

She cannot risk herself. Yes, self-preservation moves her as it does anyone else. But she knows that without her, the clone would lose her way, might think to live some mediocre life and not give what she ought to for humanity, for the galaxy.

Hope is careful. She moves in the night, slipping around dark corners and alleys, keeping her breathing even, her pistol in hand. But luck doesn't last forever and the hiss of a smoke grenade puts her instantly on alert. She turns on her heel and runs down the dark alley, brick to either side of her, some homage to the old earthen cities of the past. There are more troopers ahead and they turn to her, quickly shouting their sighted target. Hope's heart jumps to her throat and she lifts the pistol, discharging two quick rounds. It hits them square in the forehead, blowing their brains out before she turns. Centurions to the front, coming out of the smoke like tanks.

She reaches to her side, knowing her pistol is useless against those shields, and flicks a grenade at them. They shout, beginning to back away and Hope spots a fire escape several feet above her. She leaps, taking hold of the slippery rungs on the ladder, still wet and cold with rain and pulling herself up.

The blast of the grenade makes her ears ring. She doesn't hear the metal clanking of her steps going up the escape. She's a fish in a goddamned barrel out here and she knows it. She makes her legs go faster, muscles burning as she takes the flights of stairs up, two at a time, yanking herself to the top, into the cold and windy night.

Several rooftops over she sees a helicopter sweeping its search light over alleys, over roofs, more Cerberus troopers rappelling down. _Shit, shit, shit. _Gathering a lungful of air she finds some cover behind several exhaustion pipes and tries to steel herself, calm herself. The Cerberus troops dropping to ground level helps and eventually the helicopter moves on, shining its beacon elsewhere.

It's time to move. Her ears are still ringing but sound is gradually returning. Cool sweat is slicked to her face and neck and she wipes at it, boots pounding along the roofs, heading in the opposite direction of the Cerberus assault team. She's nearly at the edge of another building when a shadow swoops down in front of her.

Hope quickly jumps back to create some distance. He is taller than she remembered. Oh, he's tricky. He smoked her out quite nicely. "The Illusive Man sent you?" She smiles, even as Kai Leng withdraws the sword from his back. Her hearing has come back enough to hear the metal of the blade slide against the sheath. "I'm flattered."

Kai Leng returns her smile. He is a handsome, cruel man with eyes that are as dark as the material he wears, the Cerberus logo is prominently and proudly centered on his chest. The Illusive Man's most trusted agent. So. Her presence was missed after all. "Don't be. I'm not here for you."

"Oh, good. I was almost worried." Hope is grateful her voice is steady. Kai Leng is the Illusive Man's top agent and assassin for good reason. He does good work. "You'll be moving out of my way then." She bravely takes a step forward and then another. He watches her, sword disarmingly at his side but Hope knows he can cut her in half in an instant if he chooses to. "I'm surprised Cerberus still suits your purposes. They love aliens as much as the Alliance these days."

"I'm not here to talk shop. Where's the clone?"

"Clone? I don't know what you mean."

He backhands her so viciously she stumbles several steps back. Any feeling in the right side of her face is gone. She tastes blood. She doesn't move closer again. This time Kai Leng advances calmly. "I'm not going to play this game with you, Hope. We know you took her. I'm going to kill you," he tells her matter-of-factly, "but how quickly and how painfully, is up to you. A gift for your service to our organization."

Hope surveys the area. The night is spread out like a blanket, the moon pale and fat, a breeze kicking in and a sea of buildings in every direction. Lots of escape routes, really but Cerberus is everywhere and this is Kai Leng. "Look, I may have left Cerberus but I have no idea—"

This time he strikes her with his open palm. Pain flares across her face, her recently returned hearing going off again, making it feel as if her ear is stuffed with cotton. "Tell me where she is," he menaces. His eyebrows have narrowed, and this time he brandishes his sword.

"No," she lifts the gun. "You can't have her." She fires off three quick shots but the bastard is fast, dodging and weaving, sprinting at her. None of the shots land. He swings the ninjato blade but fortunately she's fast too, she dodges the first two swings and has to dive to the right to escape the third.

She hears a small, unrecognizable sound and grimly realizes that her shields are gone, he's whittled them down to nothing somehow. He rushes at her again, kicking viciously. She blocks it but not without the brutal hit making her arms throb painfully. She's lucky they didn't break.

They exchange punches and kicks, a sadistic dance that leaves them both bloody and battered but one, she knows, she can't possibly win. She lands hits more often, but just barely, each of his punches and kicks that connect wreck her and her strength begins to give away, her legs weakening until she falls to her knees. He ruthlessly kicks her head and she's sent sprawling to the ground. He follows her and kicks her side repeatedly. Ribs snap. She really should just tell him where the clone is.

He wraps a savage hand around her throat and yanks her to her feet. "Don't be stupid, Hope. Tell me what I want to know." His teeth are red. She's proud of herself. She blinks at the blood that spills fast from her brow into her eye. She can't breathe. She can't speak. "Tell me!" he screams, spit flying into her face.

Hope smiles, despite the excruciating pain. "I'll be the first black mark on your record. Tell the Illusive Man 'better luck next time'." Rage marks Kai Leng's features. She takes a grim satisfaction in it, mentally issuing the command at the same time as he buries the ninjato blade into her side. It fills her like fire. What if it doesn't work, she thinks? What if she dies anyway? What if the clone doesn't see things through till the end? The questions, the agony are cut short as everything shuts down, heart, lungs, brain function. She goes limp.

* * *

Kai Leng lets her body slide away from the blade and to the ground. Blood blooms around her. He kneels at her side, putting an ear over her heart, his fingers on her pulse, covering her nose with his fingers. Nothing. No response. The bitch is dead. He slams a fist beside her head and stands, returning to the shuttle to inform the Illusive Man of their setback.


	7. Desire

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, faves and follows everyone! You keep me going! This was originally going to include some Grace/Clone but it would have been far too massive of a chapter. For now, you have this: Normandy Exclusive chapter. Huge thanks to the Allusive Man, as always for conspiring with me on this and fixing any weirdness. If there is weirdness to be found it's because I screwed it up somewhere. All on me! Another very M rated chapter. Also, I wish this site would allow strikethroughs, damn it.

* * *

Shepard brought her to Illium, along with Jack. She takes the opportunity whenever she can. Miranda suspects Shepard's flaunting her command, bringing her close to those persecuting Oriana only to snatch the opportunity from her and force her to deal with Jack's surly company for hours at a time, instead.

They recruited the justicar. Miranda watched Shepard's eyes light and then darken, condescending and lascivious on Samara as she knelt before her and gave her oath. _By the Code, I will serve you, Shepard. Your choices are my choices. Your morals are my morals. Your wishes are my code._

Miranda recalls the icy feeling she felt along her spine as Shepard's lips pulled into a barely restrained smile. However, things are proceeding. Not as optimally as Miranda would prefer but there _is_ progress. Her chat with Garrus had some effect. Better yet, the recruitment of the quarian appears to have soothed Shepard's spirits further.

If only they could get Liara T'Soni onboard, Shepard may be putty in her hands. Miranda maintains her distance. There are cameras everywhere, after all. EDI and Kelly Chambers keep her filled in on any developments. Tali'Zorah is a nuisance. She keeps disabling not only cameras but audio feeds as well. Miranda wonders if all aliens are so pigheaded; she feels as if she's been thrown a lot of unruly children to mother. Not that she can say she has much in the way of maternal instincts. She frowns, thinking of the most recent email she received from Dr. Banner Genway. It's fitting, she supposes. She didn't have a mother herself. How could she possibly be one?

Irrelevant. She compartmentalizes the information and turns her attention to her computer monitor and the steady stream of emails Shepard keeps composing before deleting them. Thirteen drafts in all. Miranda skims them.

_Dear Liara_—

_Liara_

_Hey_

_Dr. T'soni_

_Dr. Liara T'soni_

_How are you? How are things? I miss you._

_You haven't responded to any of my emails. Too busy tracking down the Shadow Broker to send a response? It would take two fucking minutes._

_Fuck you. Fuck __**you,**__ Liara_.

_I wish you'd consider coming back to the Normandy. It isn't the same without you._

_I love you. I need you. Jesus Christ, I wonder if I'm even the same anymore. I look into the mirror and see a freak. Help me feel normal again, please._

_Did you ever love me?_

_None of these other women can fuck like you do._ _Do you even give a shit?_

_Who the fuck is this friend of yours you need to get back? Were you fucking around on me when I was dead?_

Each draft is discarded, rejected. Miranda feels a small pang of pity for the woman. She shouldn't have bought into all the hype about Commander Shepard. All she feels when she looks at her is disappointment. She wonders if the mythological God felt much the same way when man ultimately rebelled, teeth sinking into an apple, foolishly thinking they could touch His mind, be His equal, live without guidance.

Shepard needs a great deal of guidance. Miranda decides to take advantage of Shepard's insecurities and forwards her an email about the reconstructive surgery along with the necessary data. The next email she sends includes information about the location of the Shadow Broker. Truthfully she doesn't like to see Shepard's face, falling apart at the seams. It makes Miranda's work look sloppy. She didn't invest two years of her life for Shepard to look sloppy, act sloppy.

Miranda watches Shepard sit at her desk in the cabin, slumped in her chair, sitting up to look at the email she has received. A video feed disappears from the corner of her monitor. Miranda silently curses the blighted quarian.

* * *

When Shepard died, so did some piece of Tali. It was a difficult thing. Who could she share that pain with? The Normandy crew despaired. They all saw that Collector ship blow up the Normandy like it was nothing. They didn't see Shepard. They only knew that she didn't get into the emergency pod with Joker. Some part of Tali desperately wanted to believe that she'd made it.

Some part of her had always foolishly loved Shepard; Shepard who was cutting and mean but was always kind to her. The day she finally accepted that she'd gone, she secluded herself from the rest of the Neema (as best as she could on such a tight ship) and cried so much her eyes stung for hours. She cried until she no longer could. She wondered how Liara could bear it when she was falling apart.

Then on Freedom's Progress, there Shepard was again. And then again on Haestrom, saving the day. She looked different. She still does. But it's her. It's really her. It has to be. Shepard remembers things Tali told her, she remembers about the data. If Tali can't trust memories, what can she trust?

Garrus sidles up next to her on the bar, sliding a shot glass to her. She smiles, taking it between her digits. It's nice to have him around again. He has always been an intense man, somehow passionate and cool in one. He's no one Tali would ever want to get on the wrong side of. He and Shepard were always close but these days he sticks closer to her than ever. Tali wonders if he has a crush too. "Another one?" she asks. "How much is Cerberus paying you?"

"Not one credit," he says. The Dark Star Lounge music pulses and she scoots closer to hear him better. "You know I'm not here for them. This is all courtesy of our fearless hero." They both look to Shepard who's at the bar, ignoring the turian and flirting with an asari. Tali wonders if she could have had a shot with her if she'd been born an asari, or anything that wasn't a quarian. Ay. Shepard makes her crazy in the head. "Bottoms up," he clinks their shot glasses together and make a face. "Oh, sorry. I guess it isn't that easy for you," he reaches past her and takes a straw, dunking it in her shotglass.

"I didn't realize you were such a gentleman," she says. He barks out laughter before clearing his throat and the two quickly down their shots. Shepard looks to be in the middle of some story to the asari who is laughing. Shepard's skin is coming open. It's strange to see her like that, with those strange red eyes. She looks part machine and it unsettles her. Tali thinks her own distrust of the geth is what fuels the disquieting feelings. She hasn't seen Shepard behave out of character. "You know, you're _scarier_ than you used to be."

"Me? Scary? I'm hurt."

"I never saw you as a bad boy before. Are you trying to take after Shepard?"

"Shepard's a boy now? Oh. I thought I was bad at human biology but usually I can tell their sexes apart. I guess they all do look alike," he says. She sees a whisper of his teeth and Tali smacks his arm. He's a bigger smart ass than he was before, too. "Still have a case of hero worship?"

Tali sputters. "I—I don't know what you mean." She bites her lip. Garrus passes the shotglass back and forth between his fingers. Her face floods with heat. Tali silently congratulates him on scoring a point in a game he doesn't even know is being played. "I dismantled a few more cameras on the Normandy. I would have done it anyway, but knowing that I have Shepard's blessing makes it all the more satisfying." She sits up straighter, trying to get the attention of the bartender who pretends she isn't there. "I don't trust any of those people." There's a pause. "Not any of Cerberus anyway. Especially Miranda."

Garrus makes a noise and slams his shotglass down in front of the human bartender. "The lady would like a drink. You'll find our credits spend as well as anyone else's." The human grouses but pours them new drinks, huffing and sighing the entire time.

She takes a sip of the new drink and is glad when it doesn't kill her. After Shepard's experience with the batarian on Omega, Tali has been extra cautious. It turns out that having been a crewmember on the Normandy when they stopped Sovereign carries little weight. And even if they do know her, Tali isn't one to brag about her exploits. All quarians look alike to humans anyway. "You're so forceful."

"Only when it's necessary."

"Ah ha. I can't remember the last time I saw you exercise restraint," Tali says. Garrus grins. "I'm so happy she's back, Garrus." Garrus trails his finger along the rim of his glass. "I wish it wasn't with Cerberus but…" She doesn't know what it is that she's saying, nor did she mean to begin waxing romantic about Shepard. If she were, she doesn't know that Garrus would be the one to talk to about it. Maybe calibrations or polishing weapons would be better topics of conversation.

"Tali… about those video feeds…" Garrus starts hesitantly.

Shepard is there suddenly, throwing her arms around the two, pulling them tight. "How are my favorite squaddies?" she asks. "Getting good and liquored up? We don't get much shore leave; let's enjoy it while we can." Tali tries not to become flustered at the contact, already forgetting whatever Garrus was trying to talk to her about. "Has Garrus been behaving himself?"

Tali blinks. "What?" She doesn't have an opportunity to explore the conversation further, Shepard's dragging her away from the stool and the bar, out to the dance floor. Tali stands awkwardly, unsure of the meaning behind the action before Shepard starts dancing. Tali looks around.

"Hey, come on, I'm not that bad of a dance partner, am I?"

Tali smiles. Surprisingly, inconceivably, even, Shepard looks to have improved. Tali listens to the music and starts to sway to it. While the Flotilla loves music and engages in dancing often, she hasn't had the spirit to join them since Shepard died. Now that she's back, it's different. There's a reason to dance again. Tali looks over at Garrus and beckons him to come closer but he shakes his head. When she glances back, Shepard stands even closer, has taken a careful hold of her hips. Tali is sure she short circuits, all thought momentarily shutting down. "What's the matter, Shepard? Did the asari bartender turn you down?" Shepard laughs. "I'm not the easy prey you think I am, you know."

"Aren't you?" Shepard smiles and in the flashing lights, she almost looks normal again, like that old Shepard who only had a scar on her upper lip, cutting into her eyebrow, like the old Shepard who could send her heart into a tailspin. "I'm really glad you're back, Tali." Shepard pulls her close. "I need someone like you at my side." She whispers the words, as much as anyone can whisper them at a nightclub with music blaring.

"Oh," she says.

Then Garrus is there, asking to cut in, surprising the both of them. Tali thinks she imagines the glare on Shepard's face. Shepard stalks away from the dance floor and Garrus thrusts a fist in the air, moving his legs for all of two seconds before walking off too. Tali sighs. Well. So much for that.

* * *

Shepard doesn't like the cabin. She doesn't like the quiet. The electronic equipment thrums softly with the beat of a hum, ringing in her ears. She convinces herself that playing any music might hide any telltale signs of Miranda and Cerberus' spying, of the cameras. It's nice to get away. She likes the rare moments of solitude. She stares at Liara's picture and lets it wreck her.

It was beautiful, in a morbid way, being so close to the stars, seeing fire fill up the skies, even as her heart broke. She would never see Liara again. She thought that. She thought of her as her heart came to a stop. How did Liara do it? How did she come to completely possess her in such a short period of time?

Shepard sits at the terminal. No new messages. None from her. She takes a breath and massages her forehead. She has to see Anderson. She can't push it off forever. No doubt he's heard the rumors. No doubt Kaidan has run off to snitch. How can she tell him she came back fine, she came back all right when she's working for Cerberus? When she looks like some goddamned Frankenstein?

Thank God for Tali. Thank God for Garrus. They're loyal. They're here. They make her feel safe. Anger at Liara festers inside of her. No word. No nothing. She runs her fingers through her hair and takes a breath. She releases it. She makes it into a mantra and attempts to send Liara another message. Maybe she should get drunk first. Won't matter to her worth a damn what she sends then.

She takes another long breath, holding it until it becomes painful and she sees spots. Exhales slowly. It's a reminder that she's alive.

_Dear Liara,_

_I know you're busy. Guess we have that in common. You know, dying's the only real break I've had from this 'saving the world' bullshit. The world doesn't mean a damned thing to me without you in it. When we got rid of Saren I thought we'd have time. We didn't get it. Not what we deserved._

_I know how it seems. I know how I look. It's going to be fixed. All of this is temporary. You and me—we're endgame. That's what I thought. Will you reconsider joining me on this mission? I could sure use you on my side. You can't tell me finding whoever this friend of yours is trumps stopping the Collectors. We helped each other out before. We can again._

_[Is there someone else?] _She deletes the line.

_Can you please send me some kind of response? You're fucking killing me, T'Soni._

_x. Jane_

She sends the email and regrets it immediately. How the fuck does an asari barely out of her teenage years reduce her to a pining schoolgirl? She hates showing her hand without so much as a bluff at the ready. She doesn't mention the Shadow Broker. Not yet. She wants to see how Liara responds to her earnest appeal. She needs to hold on to the gambit in an instance of desperation.

* * *

The krogan doesn't have a smell. He's shiny. He hasn't earned anything. He was bred in a goddamn tank. His knowledge was downloaded. Shepard despises him. Far as she's concerned, he and Miranda are cut from the same cloth: genetically engineered by maniacs with gifts they don't deserve.

Miranda's a robot. Always emotionless, always in control, always a raging bitch. Grunt is a beast, wild, violent and unpredictable. Both created in labs. Shepard doesn't trust something that isn't born; Shepard doesn't trust science trumping God.

Something about it is immoral. Something about them makes her skin crawl. She touches her arm experimentally, scratching it gingerly over the hoodie she wears. Kasumi arches an eyebrow delicately. Kasumi is fun and always up for a heist. Shepard doesn't trust her, can't. No one in their right mind would willingly work for Cerberus, no matter how many credits are at stake.

"I'm kind of sorry this isn't strip poker," Kasumi says, throwing a few chips down. "I'd have you down to your undies, Shep."

Shepard's glad it isn't strip poker. Not that she wouldn't mind having a look at Kasumi (if she ever got a decent hand) but she isn't ready to bare it all. Not the way she would have before anyway, with some impish glow in her eye. Now the glow is all too real. She can see it reflected on surfaces, on her hands when she wakes in the night. "Keep dreaming, Kasumi."

"In case you both have forgotten, strip poker could kill me," Tali says, adjusting herself on the chair she sits on. Shepard smiles over at her.

"Cry me a river, kid," Zaeed rearranges his cards. He came into the game boasting about his skills and has gotten the shittiest deals all night. Shepard suspects Kasumi's deck has an edge they haven't picked up on. She and Tali are killing it. "Don't know how the hell you're doing it. Can't even read the cards off your helmet. Guess you do have one hell of a poker face after all."

"That's offensive," Tali says but Shepard isn't sure that she means it. She's been humming for the majority of the evening.

Shepard likes Zaeed. There's something about grizzled old men who are open about their sociopathic tendencies that tends to reassure her. That and the fact that he's killed over fifty Cerberus agents puts him securely into the camp of people she _can_ trust on the ship. "Do quarians wear panties to get into a twist, Tali?"

"Shepard!" Tali shows her cards and the table collectively groans. Tali collects the mountain of chips, pulling them towards her. Of all the group playing, Tali is the least likely to collect actual credits. Out of all the crew playing, she's the one Shepard is most likely to pay up to.

"You really do like to tease her," Kasumi observes, getting Tali to lean across the table to whisper something.

Zaeed takes a swig off the unlabeled brand of alcohol he's drinking. It has a yellow, greenish hue to it making it look like battery acid. Whatever it is, it leaves him immensely satisfied, his eyes looking sharper than ever. Even the one that's implanted settles on her too keenly. Shepard stands, rising from the mess hall table to search through the kitchen cabinets.

She finds a mug and sets it aside, looking for some instant coffee. To her consternation, Miranda is soon there. Like her, she pulls out a mug. Unlike her, she immediately finds the tea bag that she's looking for and starts to boil water in a kettle. Shepard abandons her search, pulling herself up to the counter to take a seat. Shepard watches her unwaveringly. Miranda crosses her arms gently, looking at her, past her. "Playing card games. I suppose that's a step up from beating your squad to a pulp." Her voice is remarkably light. Shepard finds it all the more grating.

Tali glances back at them and Shepard frowns. It isn't that she regrets what she did because she doesn't. She wanted to find out what Jacob was made of and she did: nothing. He's Cerberus. Doesn't matter anyway. If Tali asked, Shepard would tell her. Not that she thinks Tali would care about her beating up Cerberus agents. Didn't she offer to help her blow up the ship? Tali's solidly on her side. But she might misunderstand the situation. Miranda strikes her as the sort to enjoy creating misunderstandings. "Didn't quite get to the 'pulp' stage. You can thank Garrus for that one."

Miranda's finger taps lightly against her own arm but her face reveals nothing. She turns to pour boiling water into her mug. "Cerberus has humanity's and your best interests in mind. Jacob especially. You should consider apologizing to him," she suggests.

"No." Shepard waits for Miranda to tense but she doesn't, as if she unsurprised by her dissent. "I stopped at him. I didn't continue on to you. Makes us even, in my book." She swings her legs gently. Miranda drops a tea bag into the mug. She stares at her. Shepard looks back. Miranda's supposed to be perfect. She doesn't know what her insides look like, what kind of rot lurks beneath the surface of a Cerberus agent but the outside is pristine. Gleaming hair, full lips, and a body that's unreal. Isn't real, really. Staring into her eyes is like stepping into frigid winter. "How's your sister?" she asks lightly. "Escaped Daddy's clutches yet?"

Miranda's eyes thaw. They don't flare. It's enough to make Shepard sit up straighter. She waits for a reprimand. Miranda likes to show off. Shepard braces for it. Miranda picks up her mug of tea. Shepard wonders if she's going to throw the boiling water at her. "That topic is off limits." She steps closer, hands settling at Shepard's sides. She looks at the table of players and her voice is soft. "If you bring her up in that way again, your little friends won't be able to stop me." Shepard smiles. Finally. A reaction. Miranda picks up her tea. "Enjoy the game," she tells the group, retreating to her office.

Shepard wishes she'd asked her where the instant coffee was.

"Did it suddenly get cold in here?" Kasumi asks.

* * *

The quarian reminds Shepard so much of Tali that she immediately feels a kinship to the woman, some obligation to rescue her from the moronic volus and C-Sec guard that act like their shit doesn't stink. They've raised one hell of a storm over a goddamn credit chit.

Shepard may not be able to see Lia'Vael's face but if Tali taught her anything, it's how to be mindful of body language. The girl is jittery and nervous. Shepard doesn't doubt for a second that she's telling the truth. Tali, beside her, is becoming more anxious by the second. And here she'd just been hoping to have a relaxing stroll through the Citadel, see the old sights. Avoid Captain Anderson.

"Don't you have better things to do?" Shepard asks Officer Tammert. He feeds her a line. Shepard never liked bored C-Sec officers, itching for some petty crime to take their minds off how insignificant their jobs are. Aside from Garrus and Bailey she can't say there are C-Sec officers worth a damn. _Real_ soldiers go into the Alliance. "I'll find that damn chit," she says to the group, stalking off. The quarian, Lia'Vael, looks after them worriedly.

Tali falls into step beside Shepard. "I can't believe what they're making that poor girl go through," she seethes. Shepard glances at her, a smile touching her lips. Two years, laid out on a goddamn medical table. Two years for so much to change, for Tali to grow up. Shepard hears her voice now, strong, rigid and is proud of her, happy to work alongside of her. "You know, I thought the Citadel might change after what happened with Saren. I _thought_ my role in all of this would mean something—"

"It did. It _does_." They walk to the Saronis Applications shop but Shepard can tell Tali's still fuming. "I hate it as much as you do, Tali but there are a _lot_ of ignorant people out there. All we can do is prove them wrong. Far as I'm concerned, you've gotten one hell of a head start in changing the reputation of quarians everywhere."

Tali looks at her and then turns her head away. She's embarrassed. This time Shepard hides her smile and focuses her attention on the flattering salarian. He remembers Kor'tun but doesn't remember him dropping a credit chit. Tali puts her hands on her hips, standing on her tiptoes before rolling her neck, massaging there. "Shepard, what are we going to do? I _know_ that she didn't take his stupid chit. These volus' are so obsessed with credits that they'll try to take them from someone else." Shepard smirks gently. "He's going to try to get her thrown in jail. I can't even imagine what would happen to a quarian in Citadel-security."

"We'll take care of it. Let's just take a look around," Shepard says. They browse the shop terminal before searching the shop, checking in corners and then finding the chit on the counter. Shepard grins, flipping it in the air before catching it. "Worrying that pretty little face for nothing," Shepard says. Tali clasps her hands together as if to clap before clearing her throat. Shepard grips her shoulder reassuringly. They march back to the group and Shepard chucks the chit at Kor-tun. "Payday, asshole." The volus fumbles for it, breathing heavily as it rolls away from him. He chases after the chit, turning in a few circles before finally claiming it. Suit or no, Shepard knows when she's being glared at. "Found this at Saronis Applications. Hard to believe a volus would ever be so forgetful when money's concerned."

The volus takes a few deep breaths. "I find that offensive, earth clan," he wheezes. "How do I know you're not lying? Your quarian rat could have been conspiring with this one to rob me blind. I'm lucky they only got a chit. You know how they are—"

"Are you serious?" Tali demands, bristling, stepping forward with her hands balled into fists. Shepard's glad Tali doesn't have her shotgun. "Despite what you think, we aren't thieves! We honor community and loyalty, not credits. If we're forced to steal, it's because ignorant people like you refuse to let us earn a living!"

"All right, all right," the C-Sec officer stands between them and jabs a finger into Tali's chest. "You're going to have to—"

Shepard takes the C-Sec officer's wrist in her hand and twists, bending his arm behind his back and shoving him face down to the floor. "Don't you ever touch a member of my crew again," she menaces. She hears him yowl but she doesn't let up on her grip. She hears C-Sec officers running over but she ignores them. "Go ahead and try to run me up to Bailey. He, Anderson and the Council will tell you to kiss my ass. Spectres don't answer to petty C-Sec guards." She shoves him to the ground. The officers arrive, guns drawn. Shepard glowers. "This officer attacked a member of my crew. Now are you going to handle this or do I have to go straight to the Council myself?"

The crowd disperses, the C-Sec guards dragging away the swearing, apoplectic Tammert. Shepard kneels in front of Kor'tun and smacks his chest once and then again. "And you. Keep harassing innocent quarians and I'll come back personally to pop a hole in your suit. Hear you guys don't hold up too well under pressure." She takes the credit chit he's holding in his tiny hands and shoves him away. "Get going."

Kor'tun does, swearing under his breath, threatening to talk to his embassy about this outrageous behavior. Shepard looks at Lia'Vael. "Wow," she says. "I saw that playing out a lot of ways. That wasn't one of them," she touches her helmet. "You really didn't have to do all that. But—thanks. It means a lot that a human would step in for me. Especially Commander Shepard."

Shepard smiles. "What can I say? I have a soft spot for quarians." She cocks her head to Tali. "You can thank the company I keep." Lia'Vael moves on her way with another word of thanks. "Did I go too far?" she asks Tali.

"You're asking me?" Shepard can hear the beam in her smile. "Well, I can't say that I mind listening to you shout. And it's not like I could ever hold you back."

Tali's voice is slow and throaty. Shepard wonders what might have happened if she hadn't fallen so deeply in love with Liara. Even thinking of her makes her heart ache. She wonders if Garrus has a thing for Tali. She wonders if she went too far at the Dark Star Lounge. Tali's sweet and her curves are enough to spur Shepard's imagination into overdrive. She never thought of her that way before. Is she bored? Does she miss Liara? Hate Liara? Or has Tali simply grown up? Shepard laughs softly, wrapping an arm around Tali's shoulders. "Let's get going. I promised you some delicious paste, didn't I?" Her fingers graze along Tali's back before moving on her way.

* * *

'_Your morals are my morals. Your wishes are my code.' That's what you said. Now open your mouth and kiss me back._

The meld was incredible. Visceral. Every piece of her soared, every inch of her burning brighter than the Normandy on that fateful day. Samara is a matriarch. Shepard was Liara's first lover. Samara's have been countless. The experience shows. Even if a part of Shepard is left shaking and cold.

Shepard throws up into the toilet again, hacking, sweating. She uses the sink for leverage and pulls herself up to her feet, red eyes burning in the mirror. She splashes water on her face several times over, letting the water become scalding but not ceasing the action.

She swishes the scorching water in her mouth and spits out several more times, wanting to wipe and purify the acidity from her tongue, mingling there with the taste of Samara. There was a part of Samara that was happy to let go. That was glad to be compelled to, to be given an excuse. She's sure of it. Their morals are the same. Nothing wrong happened.

Shepard heaves for breath and slumps to the floor, head in her hands. Why the fuck hasn't Liara gotten back to her? Doesn't she understand that she's driving her crazy with her absence? With her indifference? She never asked to come back. Why is it always up to her? Nobody realizes the toll it takes. Do they care?

She clutches at the wall and stands. Her eyes are shadowed. She stares into the mirror again and squares her shoulders, wipes the anguish away. She returns to the observation deck. Samara is sitting on the floor, meditating. Shepard finds spots on her exposed skin where she has bruised from grips, kisses and bites. The woman's body is hard and lean, incredibly strong, malleable and flexible.

Shepard collapses beside her, remembering how Samara cried out. Four hundred some years without a lover would have anyone aching for release. Shepard sniffs and crosses her legs, trying to steady her breath. She is empty now that the heightened pleasure that consumed her is gone. Samara leads her through a couple of breathing exercises.

They help. Shepard closes her eyes and feels Samara's eyes on her. The burning is different now than before. It's in her eyes, it's in the skin cracking alongside her ribs, it's in the pit of her stomach and the palms of her hands where her nails bury. Shepard waits for the spark that will burn uncontrollably, the one that will swallow her.

"You are restless," Samara tells her evenly. Shepard looks at her. Samara looks the same as she usually does. Shepard thinks idly that worse things happen. She bites her tongue. "Be at peace, Shepard. I am. However, as soon as this mission is completed and I am released from my oath, you must know that I will kill you. The Code does not allow an injustice to go unpunished. It is a matter of honor. And it will be… personal for me. I pity you."

Shepard closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and tries to let the calm fill her but it doesn't come.


	8. Closer

A/N: More canon tweaks. But this story has been full of canon tweaks. This is a massive chapter- big Grace focus! Huge thanks to the Allusive Man for fixing this. Also, he basically wrote a giant portion of the New Canton section, changing it from my lackluster action sequence (I can't do it!) to something more exciting. He is my muse! And he helps me with all the 'sci-fi mumbo jumbo' and usual edits. As always, if something was missed that's on me for changing something last minute... Anyway, many, many thanks for the reviews and follows and faves! You all rocks my socks with your thoughtfulness.

* * *

Grace grits her teeth as she carefully settles the shuttle to a landing beside the giant cornfield in New Canton. She doesn't like the landings; it's too close to crashing and seeing dropped ships make her uneasy.

Floyd has been standing over her shoulder for the duration of the drop, still bitching about how she handles a Mako, threatening to gut her if she crashes the shuttle. Grace prefers the takeoff. The sound of the thrusters boosting before the shuttle sails into the air. It's different when she's the pilot; she doesn't particularly like the role but the academy makes it a requirement.

The landing is a little rockier than she would like but not terrible. She isn't like Santos who can ease the shuttle down like a lover. Floyd makes a face, aggravated that he can't complain too much. Volkova rushes to fill in the silence _ah, with all the grace of a krogan._ Grace smiles faintly, exiting with them into the sweltering day.

The sun is up and bright in a clear, cloudless sky. They have another few hours of light yet. Grace removes her helmet, a small breeze rushing in to flick her hair around. Despite her travels and missions, she hasn't spent too much time on a planet like New Canton. She kneels, threading her fingers over the grass, surprised at how it cuts.

Santos smiles. "Reminds me of home."

"It's too hot here," Volkova complains. "Let's do what we have to do and get going." She lifts her face, her nose wrinkling in the air. "It smells like cow shit."

"Do you ever stop complaining?" Floyd wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "And you, are you a cow?" Grace realizes he's looking at her and stands. What is it about her that makes people constantly refer to her that way? "Stop wasting time; you act like you've never seen grass before." Before she can say anything he pushes a few buttons on his omni-tool. "You know, you think just _once_ they'd send us to some asari world to pick up a package." Grace frowns gently. "Another routine mission, another shit hole."

Grace smiles. "Now who's complaining?" Santos and Volkova's lips twitch but they manage to keep their expressions neutral. "So, what do we have?"

Floyd glowers. "Like I said, just a pickup job. From Cerberus." Volkova and Santos swear at the name. Cerberus. The human-survivalist group. Classified as a terrorist organization by the Alliance and many alien species. _Don't buy into what they say_ Hope told her once when Grace tried to talk about it _they act like only aliens are allowed to be proud of their race. _"Reaper tech? Whatever the hell that is."

"Reapers?" Grace asks. Sounds familiar. Nothing she can place. Just an ominous, cold and inky feeling that settles over her. "What are they?"

"Bullshit rumors," Santos says. "Ships? Machine ships?"

"They say a Reaper attacked the Citadel," Volkova sniffs as if irritated that she's deigned to respond to any question Grace has asked. That's become the nature of their relationship, one of scorn and indifference. Grace isn't sure if it's a friendship. She's never had those, unless Hope counts, which she doesn't think does. This is her first foray and she doesn't know whether she's doing any of it right. "Sovereign?"

Floyd laughs. "You'll believe anything, won't you?" He gets a scowl from Volkova in return. "Jesus, it's a good thing you're good at killing." He exhales in amusement and pulls up a map on the omni-tool. "I don't care what Cerberus thinks it is, we're getting paid to pick it up. Let's get moving."

They move on. There appears to be some sort of festival or fair going on in the farming community. Grace excitedly spots some real cows in the distance but stifles the happy feeling, maintaining a sober expression. Twangy music plays and children run past her, engaged in a game of tag. There's a Ferris wheel further along. The aroma of delicious foods wafts through the air and they all grudgingly wander over to the booths to grab a quick bite. Grace gets a corndog, which she ends up finding disgusting and is appeased by Santos sharing his elephant ear. She doesn't understand why food is named after animals it isn't made from.

Licking their fingers, smiling at those who all seem intent on staring at them and Grace in particular, they wind their way through the crowds and arrive at a small collection of buildings, far different from the rest of the wooden structures that dot the community. Floyd stands in front of the door. "Santos, you're on."

Santos has a talent for hacking and he pulls a few devices from his pockets, attaching it to the card reader and toying with the omni-tool. The rest of the squad blocks the view. They hear a crack of thunder and then another. Grace turns her head up to the sky that is quickly blackening, flashes of lightning bursting in the clouds.

"Rain on the day of the fair. Never fucking fails," Floyd says.

"Ah, they're not going to let a little rain stop them," Santos claps his hands and stands. "We're good." The door slides open and they step inside to a much different place than they were expecting. Everything is cold, glinting steel. And blissfully air-conditioned. Volkova smiles for the first time in days. Everyone readies their weapons, despite the lack of personnel. Computers and monitors litter tables and walls, datapads scattered. The building is impossibly long.

They move further inside and spot a few bodies, dressed in black and white uniforms, an orange crest on their lapels. Their lifeless bodies are twisted, dried blood sticking to their faces. All of them look to have been shot in the head. Some hits are cleaner than others.

On the far end of the wall, scrawled in blood: IT'S IN MY HEAD.

Santos whistles. "What the fuck happened here?"

"You act like you've never seen a body before," Volkova says. There is a luminescent, pulsing object beneath a glass case. It's about twelve inches high and ten inches wide at the bottom. It curves up like an inverted fang. "This must be the artifact. Such a little thing." She pauses to look away from it when thunder rolls so loudly it nearly drowns out her words, shaking the glass around the object. "Nobody reported a storm."

"It's fair day," Floyd reminds her.

"What happened here?" Grace asks, looking around at the bodies. She turns her attention to the bloody mess on the wall. IT'S IN MY HEAD. What is? What does it mean? She looks at the artifact, silver with a tinge of purple to it. She reaches out to touch it but pulls her hand back. "Who killed these people?"

"Who cares?" Floyd lifts the glass and picks up the object, uttering a gasp. The squad looks at him questioningly. "It's cold." He tells them. Grace arches an eyebrow. "Real fucking cold."

"Let's get another elephant ear," Santos says.

That's when they hear the screaming.

* * *

Lightning slices through the sky like long, knobby fingers. The heat of before is gone, replaced by a violent wind and a massive dark cloud. Grace spots a ship in the sky. She waits for the familiar recognition to come to her in the way that it does, that moment of déjà vu but it never does.

All she hears are the screams. Everyone is running, shrieking. She's never heard screams like this before. A black swarm moves through the crowds, freezing people midstep somehow, as if pressing the pause button. There are creatures that she doesn't recognize, creatures she can't put a name to, tall as a human, resembling insects, flying, armed. Shots ring out.

"Dios fucking mio," Santos says, his eyes wide, taking unsteady breaths. Grace thought that fighting and killing a thresher maw would be the most excitement they'd be getting. She never anticipated this. Judging by the unit's reaction, she's guessing they never did either.

Floyd is pale and sweaty. "This isn't part of the mission. Back to the shuttle!" He takes out his sidearm, clutching tightly to the Reaper artifact with his other hand.

"What about these people?" Grace says. She doesn't know why she asks the question. What _about_ these people? She doesn't know them. She doesn't know what's happening. She doesn't know what force this is. It isn't part of the mission. It is irrelevant. Hope would tell her it was irrelevant. But Hope wants humanity to survive. Would she really want her to leave? Everywhere she looks people are going down. A black, seething fog of something moves over the fair.

Volkova and Santos follow, stumbling over people who have fallen to the ground, immobilized. Critters like mosquitos the size of a fist stick to the civilians. Grace's stomach drops as she sees the horror in their faces, eyes darting about desperately for a few moments before becoming as transfixed as their bodies.

"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!" Santos shouts, firing his Mattock. It catches one of the bug things in the head, but another three soon turn their attention on him, wings lifting them into the air. They fire a weapon that sounds like a chainsaw, emitting a solid beam of golden light. His shields are gone in an instant, and he falls to the ground in two pieces.

Grace goes numb, the air leaving her lungs, her knees losing strength. She doesn't know how she stays on her feet. Volkova screams. Santos doesn't bleed. His vacant eyes are wide with the alarm he felt in his last moment of life.

Grey things sprint toward them, groaning like animated corpses, with glowing blue eyes and blue circuits that gleam through cracked flesh. Grace flings them back with a biotic throw, then squeezes off a few rounds, removing their heads. It gives them some breathing room, but Volkova is immobilized by something other than venom. Terror? Shock? Grace grabs her arm and yanks her behind a tractor.

Volkova is hysterical. "What the fuck are those things!? What the fuck is going on!?"

Grace takes her head forcefully into her hands, bringing her face close. "Get yourself together, Volkova, get yourself together!" But she hears the panic in her own voice, hears how manic she sounds. She knows that if she thinks of Santos she'll start to fall apart. How could he just die like that? How could they kill him like he was nothing? "We'll make it out of here, but if we lose it now we'll never make it to that shuttle!" Volkova manages a nod.

The buzzing sound of an insect swarm draws near and Grace throws up a barrier. The mosquito things flow around it and Volkova takes the opportunity to line up a few shots with her sniper rifle, taking out some of the bug creatures that are beginning to load colonists into pods. "What the fuck are they doing?" Volkova asks.

"Nothing good," Grace grunts. The mosquito things are swarming angrily around her barrier dome now, and some of the humanoid insects are approaching. She activates a cluster of lift grenades (stolen booty from a previous mission) and tosses them out. They detonate outside the barrier, dispersing the swarm and sending the larger creatures flying. Grace drops the barrier. "Let's move!"

They run. There are so many of the creatures that Grace wonders if Floyd made it to the shuttle, if there's any possibility that she and Volkova will make it. Volkova takes out the glowing-eyed corpse creatures, while Grace flings, pulls and detonates the insect things. The merciless wind of the storm has knocked over several of the food stands. Where there were masses of people moving minutes ago, no one moves anymore.

"I'm out of clips!" Volkova tells her. Grace tosses her a shotgun and Volkova takes it, blowing out the brains of one of the alien creatures. They're still several hundred feet from the shuttle. Grace spots another creature, massive and hunched with a bulbous upper body, lurching forward at a slow pace. It sends out a biotic wave that cascades along the ground, tearing the earth apart. Grace and Volkova are forced to separate, ducking behind whatever structures they can find remaining in the fairground. The cover offers little protection other than to conceal them from view.

Grace looks around a corner. One of the aliens lifts into the air, back arching, screaming as its flesh cracks like lava. Eyes that burn hot as coals settle on Grace. "**Assuming direct control**." The voice is deep and unrecognizable. "**Relinquish your form to us**."

"It talks!?" Volkova exclaims. She hasn't spoken this many words to Grace in weeks. It's almost funny. Almost. "What is it!?" Volkova fires off a shotgun blast uselessly, its range too limited to affect the glowing creature at this distance. It stalks toward them, leading a group of its brethren. Grace continually knocks them back with throws, timing her Paladin shots carefully, but they keep coming.

"**You prolong the inevitable**," the glowing creature announces. It hurls a crackling sphere of dark energy in Grace's direction. The remains of the booth she is hiding behind disintegrate, and she staggers back. The creature readies another biotic attack, but Grace launches herself forward in a biotic blur, slamming into it. Her head throbs with the effort, but she is rewarded with a biotic explosion. The creature melts away, and several others in the vicinity are instantly killed or sent flying back.

The giant, hunched creature remains. Barking its noise, it sends out another shockwave. Grace manages to dodge out of the path, but hears, with horror, Volkova's cry suddenly cut away. A glance back reveals the woman's lifeless body sprawled like a broken doll. Grace dives behind a toppled port-a-potty, ignoring the stench of spilled filth, bringing her hands to her helmet, as if physically trying to contain her composure. _Keep it together. Keep it together, goddamn it!_

"**Your allies have fallen**." The same voice in another body. Grace swallows, ignoring the icy grip of death that stabs at her, the sweat that chills her deep to the bone. Another shockwave crumples the port-a-potty and rattles her bones. She lurches to her feet, sets up a singularity next to the talking creature, and begins weaving her way through the frozen civilians and debris scattered on the ground. The singularity is weak, and the talking creature soon begins moving again. "**You cannot escape your destiny, Shepard**."

Grace wants to argue with it, wants to yell at the stupid creature that her name is not Shepard, that it isn't as smart as it thinks it is. More of the bug-men are in the area now, shooting at her, whittling away her shields. She rushes the creature with another biotic charge, then finishes it by blowing its brains out with the Paladin. "Shut up!" she screams.

Not a moment later, another one forms, cracking and glowing, setting its focus on her again. "**Impressive**," it says. "**But you cannot kill me, Shepard**."

Her breath is coming hard and fast. Maybe she can't kill it. She's tiring, and it just keeps coming. It just keeps coming back. She can't think about it. She continues to work her way toward the shuttle, finding spots of cover, working the angles, trying to stay out of the line of fire.

A husk? It's a husk (she doesn't know how she knows it) manages to flank her, jumping on her as she becomes aware of it and turns toward it. She struggles with it, punching it until it loosens its grip. She throws it hard to the ground, then stomps its head into mush. She's become exposed in the process, and a spray of enemy fire nearly depletes her shields. She sprints, ducking, rolling and dodging, pushing herself to the limit. Her lungs are on fire, her heart threatens to burst.

The shuttle is in sight, within reach, when she spots them out of the corner of her eye. A woman and a young girl hide behind a nearby Ferris wheel. They are terrified and quivering, but miraculously unharmed. Somehow, they've avoided death and the clouds of paralyzing bugs so far, but their luck will surely run out at any moment. If she forgets about them, she can get to the shuttle, her escape all but assured.

She debates what Hope would want. What Shepard would do. What her unit would decide. She runs to them. "Come on!" She grabs them and physically shoves them toward the shuttle. "Run!" The creatures have spotted her again, and will be on her in moments. She races to the shuttle as the woman and her daughter frantically climb aboard.

Grace stops just short. There's a pod. She shouldn't look inside, but she does. Floyd. She bangs on the glass that separates them. His eyes stare up at her in shock, but he doesn't respond. She squeezes her fingers into whatever grooves she can find, but isn't able to pry it open. The creatures are shooting at her. Her shields are gone. She clenches her jaw, stomach turning, and leaves him, clambering onto the shuttle and slamming the door shut.

She jumps into the pilot's seat. The woman and girl are talking, but Grace doesn't hear any of it. Take off, take off, take off, she has to take off. She can still hear the voice of the creature talking to her, confusing her, taunting her. For all she knows the ship has some kind of artillery that will take them down but she has to try, she has to try.

"Hold on tight!" she yells. When she faces forward, she's staring at some massive bug creature that's gliding down, screeching and moving toward them on eight spindly legs like some demonic spider crab. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...!"

The shuttle takes off. She keeps waiting for the shuttle to blow up, blasted by the repugnant aliens, but they escape. They escape. Somehow they escape.

After they're clear, her passengers introduce themselves in between thanking her profusely. Gail and Lindsay Rolston. Lindsay is 11. They ask her name. Grace she tells them. My name is Grace.

* * *

Grace drops the civilians off at Illium and returns to the academy where she reports what happens. A news vid on the attack on New Canton backs her story. They give her some medals and commendations and offer her a leadership position in CAT6, which she turns down.

She has a solitary picture of the unit, taken at Santos' insistence. They stand in a line, Santos with his sunglasses grinning, Floyd scowling, Volkova looking put out and Grace, with Santos' arm around her shoulder, smiling uncertainly.

She buries the image in a data cache in her omni-tool and tries not to think about it. All she has now are memories of a squad that no longer exists. She takes a shuttle back to the safehouse where she left Hope but she isn't there.

Dust coats the furniture. The air is hot and unlived in. She waits but Hope doesn't come back. She searches for a note but there isn't one.

The next morning she wakes in the bed she used to share with Hope. The pillow no longer smells of her perfume water. She tries to link to Hope's omni-tool but gets no response. Though Grace has been without Hope for nearly half a year, her absence now is painful and unexpected.

She watches news reports of missing human colonies and ire sparks within her again. It flows through her as she thinks of the monsters that abducted and killed so many humans, as she thinks of the freak with the glowing eyes that called her Shepard. Did it think it knew her? Is Hope right? Is she really Shepard…? No. She's Grace.

Night comes again and Grace lies awake in bed, trying not to think of New Canton, obsessing over Hope. Has Hope abandoned her? She's spent so much time at the academy, filled her head with so many new memories that it doesn't come back to her immediately. _If I am not where you expect me to be, I may have been compromised. Seek me in Virmire. _How could she have forgotten…? The conversation happened nearly half a year ago.

Grace heads to the coordinates Hope left for her so many months ago. She's never been to Virmire though the area fills her with an unease she can't put a finger to. She arrives at an abandoned beach house, lifted on stilts. The white, sunny structure overlooks the water. Small waves lap at the shore below.

She waits for two days and still there is no Hope. Grace sits on the white couch and covers her face with her hands, feeling terribly alone. Her unit is gone. Has Hope disappeared, too? Could she take it...?

The turn of the lock gets Grace to her feet. It's night now and there are no stars. Grace doesn't turn on the light. She grabs the Paladin, finger on the trigger and stalks her way to the door. Virmire's near the Terminus Systems. She knows how pirates and slavers, the lawless flee to these areas. She isn't ignorant the way she was before.

A shadow looms at the entrance. "Show yourself or I take a look after I've blown your brains out."

There's one unsteady step and then another. Pale moonlight streams through the window. Grace doesn't know who it is. Not right away. Then her breath catches.

It's _Her_. Grace is cautious, still in disbelief. She wraps Hope tightly in her arms, remembering the feel and scent of her, stopping suddenly when she gets a strangled, pained cry in return. Grace lets go and turns on the lights. Her breath is taken.

Hope's face is swollen, a multitude of colors. Her brow is gashed open, lips split. Bruises dot her neck. She wears a loose shirt and Grace, in a panic, grabs it, wanting to see how else she has been hurt, what she's hiding.

Hope stops her, fingers wrapping around Grace's wrist. Grace waits for a hard squeeze but doesn't get it. Hope exhales shakily, her free hand grabbing onto the counter, hunching over. Anger builds inside of Grace again, building like the drums of war.

"I'll kill them," Grace says through clenched teeth, trying to control her voice. "I'll kill whoever did this."

Hope releases her, placing both hands flat on the counter and trying to breathe in slowly. She clenches her jaw as a current of pain seems to run through her. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"I thought you were gone," Grace says hoarsely, happy that she didn't break, that she didn't whimper. She straightens her shoulders and wipes the emotion from her face and voice, wanting Hope to see that she came back better, stronger.

"I nearly was."

Her stomach knots. "Tell me who did this to you." Grace says. Hope stares at the counter and then gives a solitary shake of her head. Grace forces herself to cool. To calm. She does. Her eyes pulse blue and that she can't erase entirely. If Hope doesn't tell her she'll find out. She'll find out and she'll kill them. She tentatively touches Hope's hair. When Hope faces her, Grace is torn between rage and a dismantling, breaking sadness. "I'll kill them," she promises softly. Hope's smile is pained, her eyes not quite meeting hers. Grace carefully wraps an arm around her shoulder and draws her close.

"I'm glad you're all right," Hope says at last, as if accepting defeat.

* * *

Hope dreams of the fight with Kai Leng. Her body remembers the force of his strikes, how her bones cracked under pressure, how the ninjato skewered her before everything went black. She awoke drenched in blood, immobilized. She thought she was paralyzed. Her breaths were rasping and wet. She thought it all went horribly wrong. There was no feeling in her face. There was only the taste of rust and iron in her mouth. Then it began to blossom in her, face and arms throbbing to the slow beat of her heart. The burning in her abdomen that followed made it impossible to make anything but agonized, strangled sounds.

The implant had worked, triggered by a mental command sequence, releasing a fast-acting neurotoxin that simulated death, then twelve minutes later releasing the antidote and jolting her heart back to life. If not for that… She fumbled for the tubes of medi-gel, terrified she wouldn't be able to grab them, apply them on time. She cursed herself for not giving up the clone. Maybe there were others. Others she could have used. Standing took too long, blood dripping off her. Each step was unsteady. Hope knew she had to find out if Grace—the clone, she reminded herself—was okay. Still lived. Was still… viable.

A light sensation along her fingers rouses her. Her knuckles are scraped and bruised, enflamed. The clone sits beside her on the bed, fingers grazing along her wrist. Hope bites the inside of her mouth as she pushes herself to a sitting. She grimaces but she doesn't cry out. It's a small improvement.

She can hear waves of water. Seagulls squawk overhead. The clone looks at her with such earnestness it hurts. Her eyes shift like the tides. Other times she's more contemplative, less times mistrustful but usually it's this. Hope hates her gentleness. It makes her worry for the both of them. They've been in Virmire for days. It's too hot. Who knows how much longer the clone has stayed. Hope isn't sure how long it took her to get to the safehouse, how she got to the safehouse. Everything was a dizzying vertigo-induced feat. The pain was blinding.

The clone wipes the perspiration from Hope's forehead, careful of how it glides along the bump and cuts there. Hope knows slapping her arm away isn't an option. It'd be like an ant attempting to hit a god. She can't wait for the moment that she's no longer broken. "We can't stay here any longer," Hope hates how tired her voice sounds. "We have to move. We've stayed too long."

"You're not ready," the clone says firmly, even as her hand drops back to Hope's, thumb easing gently along her skin. Hope scowls and tries to sit up further, tries to leave the bed but a spasm tears through her. She gasps. The clone rubs her back. "Don't hurt yourself." Hope closes her eyes and exhales slowly. "Whatever comes, I'll take care of it. I think I can take care of anything." Hope looks at her. Her face hurts. Everything hurts. "I should have been there when this happened."

"I'm glad you weren't," Hope says sharply. She hasn't told her about Kai Leng. She won't go into details about Cerberus. The clone's too smart now. She's too determined. She won't stop until she gets answers. Hope can't risk her finding out who she is. What she is. "I got away. That's all that matters."

The clone looks away and then picks up some bandaging. "I picked up a few things at that place you sent me to. Come on, let's change your bandages."

"I don't need it."

"Your shirt is red." She bites her lower lip. Hope stares at the sheets. There are streaks of blood on them. "I won't make you." She takes a breath. "You took care of me. Let me take care of you. The faster you get better, the faster we can move." Hope doesn't have the energy to glower. She doesn't have the reasoning to argue. Her hands come to the bottom of her shirt. She has difficulty lifting it. The clone reaches out to touch it before she hesitates. Their eyes meet briefly and somehow she knows that's all the consent she needs. The clone's careful as she pulls the shirt away. Her ribbon is nearly soaked through. "We need to get you to a hospital."

"I'll heal."

"I lost my team." There's a long pause and then she begins to unwind the ribbons around her waist. Hope bites her tongue and stifles any sound she wants to make. The clone's careful. So careful. She's told her some about her experience in the academy. She hasn't mentioned any team or squad. Maybe she thinks Hope doesn't want to hear it. Maybe she thinks it'd be considered a mark of weakness. Hope doesn't know if she'd be right. She's curious. "In New Canton. There were these… bug things." Hope frowns thoughtfully. "Big. They took everyone. Froze them. And the ones they didn't take they killed." There's a beat. The Collectors. They took another colony. What the hell has Shepard been doing? "I might have saved Floyd. I could have tried harder. I don't know if I would have been able to get away. You told me to do anything to survive."

"You're meant to be a lone wolf. You don't need anyone else." Hope doesn't miss how the clone glances at her then. It's reassuring, in a way. Frightening in others. She does not want to be the weakness in the clone's armor. "You're more important than anyone. More important than me. You did the right thing."

There's a bowl of water nearby and the clone dips a rag in it, wiping the blood from Hope's stomach. She's helped her undress for baths but this is more intimate. Hope isn't versed in acts of kindness. The language is foreign and confusing for her. "I don't agree," she says softly. The clone applies ointment and medi-gel and begins to wind the ribbon around her. She looks contemplative. She doesn't look at her. Hope touches her face and though she lifts her head she can't quite meet her eyes. Hope doesn't know how much time passes in silence. "I'm sorry if I was ever…" she thinks. "Forceful. Aggressive."

Her thoughts flash to those times. She ought to consider the battlefield. But the clone is focused and calculated then. She thinks, instead, of her mouth, 'forceful' and 'aggressive' against her own. Hope tries to forget just as quickly, not trusting how it makes her blaze. "You need to be those things."

"Not all the time." She continues wrapping the ribbon around her in silence before finishing and tying it delicately. She stands and finds her a new shirt. She looks out the window while Hope slips into it, only turning when she's finished. "I love you."

A cold chill washes over Hope, followed by fire before going chill again. She's feverish and dizzy, then disappointed, in the both of them. "No, you don't." The clone crosses her arms gently. "You don't know how." She can't afford to.

The clone stands straighter, shoulders back, chin quivering for an instant. She purses her lips as if to say something. She changes her mind and exits, carefully closing the door. Hope glowers at everything, an insatiable wrath coursing through her.

* * *

"_Do you have someone, Morgan?" Santos asked. Grace hadn't heard the question right away, fixated rudely, she was mildly aware, on the scar that cut in a vertical line down his heart like a cross. He caught her stare and smiled. "Alliance souvenir." He took a mud-colored shirt from his locker and pulled it over his head. _

_The spell was broken then. "Someone?" Grace asked._

"_Someone special." Santos waited. The question confused her. What was 'special'? Was it the same as exceptional? Was it something rare? She deliberated too hard over a question that was casually asked. He sat next to her on the bench, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her. "You're a funny woman. Can kill like nobody's business but the easy questions trip you up." Grace's cheeks reddened. "I didn't mean anything by it."_

"_How do you know someone's 'special'?"_

_Santos laughed. "You serious?" The incredulous expression fell from his face, replaced by a mildly sardonic smile. "Depends on who you ask. Maybe 'someone special' is a good lay. Maybe that's someone who you can be yourself around. There's gotta be some kind of attraction there. Someone you love. Someone you'd kill for. Die for. More or less."_

"_We do that for each other," she points out._

"_Eh, we have to. Not that I wouldn't for you, Morgan. You're all right. It's more than that. More than just obligation or sticking to the rules. Are you fucking with me?" He looked at Grace who couldn't look back at him, her eyes flitting on every surface, trying to work out the logistics of what he said. "Didn't think it was a trick question."_

"_Do you?"_

_A long silence filled the room. Grace listened to the water drops on the sink. "I'd like to." He shook his head. "So now that I'm embarrassed," she didn't understand why he was, "is there someone like that for you? Someone that keeps you going? Someone you want to see again? Program like this is hard to do without that."_

_Grace thought of Hope: rigid, relentless, demanding. Hope was harsh but without her methods Grace doubted she could have survived her training. She'd made her stronger though her gaze made Grace's knees weak and her heart erratic. "Yes," she said blankly, thinking of the way Hope kissed her on the shuttle, "I have someone like that."_

_Santos mirrored her nod. "Wonder what New Canton's going to be like." _

Hours later he was dead. Grace rubs her forehead, trying not to think of him. She focuses on Virmire and the area surrounding the safehouse. The light of the sun dances like diamonds on the water. The air is hot and humid but there is a breeze with a hint of coolness to it. The blue of the sky goes on forever. It looked that way in New Canton, too. There are pieces of geth scattered like seashells along the shore.

Grace doesn't like Virmire. It makes her antsy and sad. She buries her toes in the sand. Maybe she's reckless for not keeping her boots on. Grace likes to soak in experiences and this is a new one. Hope doesn't want her to feel anything at all. Doesn't think she can feel anything at all. She treats her like a doll. Grace tries to bury the anger and resentment, her feelings of inadequacy. No matter what she does it isn't enough. The gun is strapped to her side and she fingers the cool metal, trying to not get worked up. Everything she buried at the academy is returning the more she spends time with Hope.

"Commander Shepard came to Virmire just over two years ago," Hope tells her. Grace pretends she isn't there. "To stop Saren. She had a krogan with her at the time: Urdnot Wrex. He was hotheaded, as krogan tend to be. Saren had some scheme to return the krogan to their 'glory' and end the genophage. He just wanted an army for the Reapers but the krogan wouldn't let it go. Shepard's squadmate, Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, had to gun him down."

"I don't want to talk about Shepard." She can still hear that deep voice calling to her, beckoning, hunting her. Everyone gets her mixed up with the woman but she isn't her. She isn't Jane Shepard. "Have her jump through your hoops if she's so great."

"We're going to talk about Jane Shepard as long as is necessary. Then you will replace her," Hope tells her tersely. Grace scowls. "This isn't how I planned things but it may as well be the beginning of your tour. This was one of Shepard's last stops. It was the end for Urdnot Wrex. It was the end for Ashley Williams. Shepard left Williams to rot with a bomb while she rescued Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko and an STG team. Special Tasks Group," she says, reading the question in the Grace's face. "Salarians and an alien sympathizer."

Are salarians bad, too? Grace hasn't met many of them. All races seem to be equally disreputable. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything," there's a finality to her words before she relents. "Just learn it." Grace watches her from the corner of her eye. The swelling in her face has gone down considerably, though her caramel skin is still purple and yellow with bruises. "Virmire's beautiful, isn't it?"

"It's just another planet," Grace bluffs. She's tired of looking at the sand and the water that stretches into forever. She returns inside, taking with her the heat of the sun that clings to her skin, the sand at her feet. She makes sure to shake it away, not wanting to bring it in with her and create a mess. Hope follows but drags sand in. Grace wishes Hope would be more considerate. "You look like you're feeling better."

"I _look_ like shit. I am feeling better. My ribs have mended. Well enough for me to take deep breaths, anyway." She retrieves two glasses from the counter and pours water for Grace and bourbon for herself. Grace ignores the glass. Hope moves around the kitchen island to stand in front of her. "You're pouting. It doesn't become you."

Grace tries to hold on to the ire as she stares at Hope. It's swallowed by a gaping melancholy the longer she looks at her, marred by whatever maniac attacked her. "You don't think anything becomes me."

"That's not true." She looks away from her and has a drink of the bourbon. Grace remembers the smell, how it burned sliding down her throat. Volkova gave her some weeks ago. She didn't care for it. She did like the heat. "You're angry about before but you shouldn't be. You have a purpose. You weren't built for love."

"I wasn't built at all!" She stalks away from her before pacing back and forth, returning to where Hope watches her, emotionlessly. "When will you stop talking to me as if I were some… You used to call me 'it' for fuck's sake. I am not an 'it'! I'm a person! I'm Grace!" Yes. She's a person with memories and experiences and regrets and feelings, feelings she despises, that she wishes she could discard.

Hope is quiet for a long time. "You are Jane Shepard." Grace claps her hands to her head, covering her ears, not wanting to hear it, not wanting the role, her assignment. She squeezes her eyes shut not wanting to see. Hope goes to her, takes her wrists in her hands. "You are precious. You are special. You are more than you think you are. Look at me." Grace does, resentfully, her lower lip unable to still. "The person who did this to me wanted you. He isn't someone you stand a chance against. Not yet." Grace is unsteady at the revelation. "Every single blow was worth it. I would take that and more." She releases her. "Don't be ungrateful. I know you've had a poor teacher—but you're better than that." Grace's eyes sting. "You think you know love, think you want love, but you don't. It's a weakness. Be grateful you can't know it. Be grateful I can't."

Hope slides her fingers beneath Grace's shirt, ripping the air from her lungs in the process. Her grazing touches along her skin set her aflame. Grace watches Hope's face, the way her eyes darken and flare as they meet hers. "This is different," Hope murmurs. "Don't believe the vids. Don't believe the propaganda. One has nothing to do with another." Hope removes Grace's shirt, even as the action looks to pain her.

Grace's anger is softened again. She takes the shirt delicately from her and sets it aside. "You haven't recovered." Hope grasps her face, kisses her like a whisper. Her tongue slips between Grace's lips, making her moan, making her unsteady and hot.

Hope takes Grace's nervous hands and brings them to her body. Grace is afraid to hold her. Hurt her. She fears the fire raging through her that wants to claim Hope so vehemently, urgently, desperately. "We'll be careful." She silences Grace's protest with another kiss. "Very careful."

* * *

Shepard storms through the ship, blood and sweat pouring down her face, ignoring the crew that hurriedly moves out of her way. Garrus and Samara were behind her but she's already forgotten them, jamming the button to Miranda's office and striding in.

For once there's a reaction. Miranda stands as quickly as Shepard enters and dodges the helmet Shepard hurls in her direction. It bounces off the wall, clattering before spinning on the floor. Miranda puts her hands up and Shepard almost laughs, as if that could stop her, calm her. "I know what you're thinking—"

"Fuck you," Shepard growls, slamming a fist on the desk, a flush of biotic energy cracking Miranda's coffee mug, causing a short in the computer equipment in front of her. As if she could fucking know, the snake. "Don't you _think_ of lying to me—"

"But I didn't know—"

"Bullshit!"

"_I. Didn't. Know."_

Shepard's heart beats out of control, blue tendrils of biotic power radiating off her. Miranda almost looks alarmed. Scared of her. Fucking finally. These assholes act like she's a joke. These assholes think she's just going to take it forever. "You're the XO, Miranda. You're the Illusive Man's right hand," Miranda scoffs but Shepard fixes her with a glare so deadly that she stops and waits, cocking her head, jaw tightening, "how the _fuck_ do you expect me to believe that you weren't in on it? You sent us on a fucking Collector ship—" Miranda tries to speak but Shepard slams a fist into the desk again. It begins to split. Miranda quiets. "Under false pretenses. You sent us into a trap and you risked this operation and _my_ team—!"

"So now you care about the operation?" Miranda asks. Shepard pounds her fist into the desk again. This time it collapses. "Are you finished?"

Shepard reaches across the smashed desk, taking such tight hold of Miranda's uniform that a button comes undone when she yanks her close, face nearly pressed to hers. "I'll be finished when I'm goddamned ready to be finished." Shepard breathes heavily. Miranda has gone limp like a doll. Maybe she thinks of her as some wild animal. Better to play dead. Something like that. "I want you off my ship."

"That's not negotiable," Miranda says tightly, "no matter what any of us may want." Shepard's chest heaves. Miranda's uniform is open. Shepard notices her ivory skin, contrasted against the black lace of her bra. Shepard blinks and releases Miranda, stepping back, momentarily rattled. It's hard to uncurl her fingers; they're accustomed to being held in a fist. Her fingers anxiously come to her forehead. Miranda buttons her uniform. "Are you all right?" she asks quietly.

She has a headache. She wonders how many cameras are on her right now. Shepard looks at Miranda cuttingly. "I want to talk to the Illusive Man and I want to have talked to him yesterday. _Do it._"

* * *

Shepard is finally beginning to play along. Miranda's doubts were unfounded. Shepard's reputation has always been steeped in doing whatever it takes to get the job done. While Shepard would take issue with the assertion that he and she share anything in common, her disagreement is ultimately irrelevant. She knows just as well as he does, that she will do whatever it takes to get the job done, ethics not withstanding.

The Illusive Man holds the smoke in his lungs as he considers the work laid out before him. Hope Lilium is dead. She was a talented agent. It's a pity that she decided to turn against Cerberus; her future at the organization was promising. Regardless, clone X8 remains at large. If the surveillance feeds at New Canton showed him anything, it's that X8 developed exceptionally. Her biotic prowess is comparable to Shepard's, if not greater.

The twelve clones were meant to be a perfect match but sometimes there are miniscule differences. Most haven't yielded the desired results. X8 is the greatest success and she's on the loose. More troubling is the matter in which Harbinger referred to X8 as 'Shepard'. The clones were meant to be scrap material for Commander Shepard. He doesn't need a fully functional agent on the loose. Not now when Shepard is coming around. He is not foolish enough, however, to disregard her potential.

He exhales smoke as Kai Leng strides into the room. From the way he carries himself, the Illusive Man knows he has no leads. The Illusive Man wastes no time. "Information on Paul Grayson is slowly trickling in. You'll be expected to drop everything and attend to the matter when I ask."

"Of course."

He nods. "I have recently received word from our labs. Results for the neural implant prototypes are encouraging. X8 is a perfect candidate for the Phantom Project but she still hasn't been retrieved." Kai Leng stiffens at the words but Illusive Man is in no hurry to reassure him. If they're going to face the Reapers they'll need every weapon in their arsenal. The Phantom Project could be a boon to humanity. He massages his skull. His recent headaches are an ongoing battle it would seem. "In the meantime, I want you to get to the clone facility. X3 is by no means perfect but she will be a suitable candidate until X8 can be retrieved." He flicks the end of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"X3 is viable?" Kai Leng asks.

"X3 has abnormalities," he readjusts in his chair, "but we've been able to cobble her together with some parts and pieces of the clones that didn't develop properly. She'll make a suitable stand-in until X8 is retrieved. Train her. You failed me once, Leng. See to it that it doesn't happen again."

Kai Leng bows his head, turning to exit. The Illusive Man crushes his cigarette, hoping his faith in Leng has not been misplaced.


	9. Tabula

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows everyone! The encouragement is appreciated. I am spoiled. Sorry for the slightly shorter chapter. Also, there are some spoilers from the new Foundation comic in here! Reader beware? As always, thanks to the Allusive Man for helping me brainstorm.

* * *

The mines were always dark and cold. Hope doesn't believe in ghosts but the more foolish men scraping alongside of her would whisper of such things. Scrawny and small, a forced child laborer, she lived each moment in fear, knowing one slip was all it would take for a pissed off foreman to beat her to death. She'd seen it before and they never hesitated simply because a 'boy child' was there to witness it. No, at times it was meant to be a lesson.

Who was that woman that saved her and would have left her to rot? Who was that 'Miss Brooks'?

The clone climaxes. She's like a virgin in so many ways. No doubt whatever her entangled feelings for Hope are aid the process. The clone is curious and somewhat clumsy but she is attentive and eager. A fuck is a fuck, no matter what the instrument. Hope has been tense.

The clone sits up looking thoughtful, hand grazing along her face carefully, despite the quickly disappearing bruises. _We'll be careful. Very careful._ The process is a dangerous one. The clone must be kept close enough to not run away but at enough distance that she doesn't become weak.

The clone's gentle touches always feel like trickery, more violent than violence. Hope reminds herself that the clone is a shadow that will someday surpass Shepard but that is all. No one must be trusted. She cannot let down her guard for even a moment. "What are you thinking about?" The clone asks. Hope takes her arm and pulls it away from her. Hurt, quickly shrouded, fills her eyes.

Hope nearly tells her to never ask her what she's thinking. "I'm thinking about all that we have left to do. We'll be going to Illium soon."

"Again? Why?"

Hope doesn't answer. That woman never answered her questions. She remembers the slimy feeling that filled her as she was toyed with, led around to do the bidding of a woman she knew nothing about. She taught her how to become a little actress. That woman didn't care about her. No one did. Not as a child. Not now. Funny how she surfaces in her mind every now and then, despite how Hope thinks she's forgotten.

"Hope?"

She has learned to respond to that name. She looks at the clone. This time when Grace's touch, curious and soft explores along her skin, Hope allows it.

* * *

Samara's mouth is hot like the scorching sun. Shepard remembers how it clung to her skin on her rare visits to Earth, making her olive tone deeper. She never burns but her flesh captures heat. Her mouth traps Samara's fire. Shepard thinks it's strange how they can smolder. They're both icy bitches.

Shepard yanks the material from Samara's torso. For a long time she looks at her. Not with lust but with a critical eye. She is not Liara. Liara is younger. Beautiful. Softer. Shepard closes her eyes and tries to shake her off. She kneels before her, gingerly grabbing Samara's waist and pulling her near. Her flesh is unbelievably smooth. How curious it looks on closer inspection, almost scaly but not quite. Shepard presses her lips to Samara's belly and the woman looks down at her in judgment.

Samara has become proactive but her disdain never wavers. It's appropriate. Samara doesn't quite hate her. She can't muster the feeling. Shepard isn't worth the sentiment. It reassures Shepard, who wonders what ways Samara plans on killing her when they fuck. The sex is good. Off the charts. She doesn't throw up anymore.

"You like asari," Samara tells her, head cocked contemplatively. She's still as Shepard pulls the clothing down over her hips. Shepard hates it when she talks. She doesn't sound anything like Liara or Sha'ira. Shepard's fingers remain wedged between Samara's skin and the fabric. She looks up at her and thinking there's nothing to be ashamed of, all things considered, she nods. Another cold ripple passes over her gaze.

Samara's hand lashes out so suddenly it takes Shepard by surprise. Shepard's head is twisted awkwardly to the side as Samara's fingers clench around a handful of hair. Shepard gasps in pained surprise. "I have a request to ask of you," she leans down, her face close, "but I know what you want. I will wait until we have finished." Shepard's eyes burn on her. Samara releases her only long enough to kick her back forcefully. She stalks closer, a heel pressed into Shepard's shoulder. "I cannot kill you at this time," she tells her and for the first time, regret enters her voice. Her heel digs deeper. Shepard bites back a yowl. "I've seen her in your mind, Shepard. Liara T'Soni." Her eyes half-close in thought. "It must be painful to be removed from your love. To have someone so consume you that you can think of nothing else." Shepard tries to remove the boot from her shoulder but Samara flushes blue and keeps her pinned like a slug on some medical tray. "I am puzzled that you think you know how to love. A woman of your actions couldn't possibly know. You are broken, Shepard. Perhaps Liara T'Soni knows that as well. Perhaps that is why she has not been in contact."

With a growl Shepard removes herself from beneath Samara. She springs to her feet, her hand clamping tightly around Samara's throat before slamming her against the wall. But there's no fear in Samara's eyes. She looks at her as if she's nothing.

* * *

X3's face and body is a pattern of zig-zag scars cutting over her otherwise unblemished skin. She stands naked before Kai Leng, not hobbled by modesty or shame. Her hazel eyes are hard and bitingly cold. It may surprise others but not him. He isn't so stupid to believe that a person's nature is determined by the color of their eyes.

He hadn't anticipated this job. The Illusive Man is never forthcoming, no matter if Kai Leng is his right hand. He has no idea what kind of psychological conditioning X3 has gone through but he hopes she is upgraded. The Illusive Man knows how to make the best of people and he is in no mood to be assigned babysitting duty. Surely there is a better use of his time than watching over this woman. But he knows the Illusive Man, trusts the Illusive Man. He wouldn't send him if it wasn't necessary, if he wasn't the best equipped for the job.

"The Illusive Man has plans for you," Kai Leng says. "If you survive our test run we may even keep you around." X3 gives no physical or verbal response. He moves around her. Her body is sculpted like an athlete's. From the corner of his eyes he can see the other clone models laid out, some in pieces, like a morgue. Kai Leng wonders if it bothers her that she's cannibalized from scraps of failed creations. Recovering X8 will be crucial. "Do you talk?"

"If there's something worth saying." Her tone is unfeeling and condescending. "Are you through looking?" Kai Leng stands in front of her but she doesn't flinch, doesn't move back.

"Do you have her memories?" Kai Leng waits. She looks through him but her gaze is as sharp as knives. He turns his head to the side to study her. She is remarkable. Will he have to break her or is she already primed? Kai Leng hates wasting time.

"I know how to fight. I know how to kill."

Good. Memories are a hindrance. Emotional baggage. X3 needs Shepard's talent for killing, nothing more. Kai Leng takes a swipe at her; she pulls her shoulder back, dodging it, leaping to the side acrobatically when he tries a roundhouse. They both land lightly on their feet, emotionless and agile. It'll do for now. He throws a Cerberus uniform at her, white and black, streaks of gold running along the arm. "Get dressed. We have work to do."

* * *

There's a bootleg copy of a Shepard VI on Illium. Hope's presence is tentative and near. Grace's body constricts with tension. The Shepard VI bears her face and form, it glows orange, an arrogant smirk on its lips. _What are you looking at? You've got five seconds to explain yourself or I'll let my shotgun do the talking._ Grace frowns. _Join the Alliance today! If you've got the guts._ Hope stands beside her, smiling wryly at the VI. "I prefer you," Hope tells Grace.

Grace glances at her. The sentiment is unexpected but before Grace can say anything Hope has already rolled her eyes and moved on her way. Was it a slip on Hope's behalf? Hope never says those things lightly. Hope can make her feel as if she's made of air, floating away as pleasure cascades over her. Grace tells herself that one has nothing to do with another. It's certainly true that Hope's words never match her actions in the bedroom. Grace acknowledges that she's naïve. Hope thinks she's naïve.

She looks back at the VI; it sets its hands on its hips and fixes Grace in its stare. _You're a mighty fine looking specimen, Soldier! Almost as good as the real thing. But there's only one Commander Shepard._

Grace glowers at it and moves on her way, following after Hope who is reclining against a railing, watching cabs glide through the sky. There's a krogan serenading an asari.

"Oh, Blue Rose of Illium, let your roots dig deep into the hot soil of Tuchanka. Let our scorching sun and sheeting rain turn your supple beauty into strength. For if love is to survive, it must grow thorns to pierce the hand of any that would uproot it."

The asari looks humiliated. Hope can hardly keep herself from chortling. Grace is surprised that krogan can know and recite poetry. The extranet portrays them as ruthless warmongers. "Asari. They'll mate with anything," she twines her hands as if bored, "they've got some talents, don't get me wrong but that krogan is a mistake."

"Blue Rose of Illium," the krogan continues. The asari looks around as if to see if anyone is watching, listening, "leave eternity unembraced and grapple in the glorious struggle that is us, here and now! I am speechless, not with blood rage, but with love, and I stand here, humble and mute, to offer you a home. Come to me, Blue Rose of Illium. Let our three hearts beat as two."

Hope scoffs again. "I think it's sweet," Grace tells Hope. The asari looks over at the two of them in desperation. Hope shakes her head. Grace smiles and gives her a thumb's up. Hope whacks her arm and drags her away. "Where are we going?"

"Do you think Commander Shepard wastes her time playing matchmaker?" Hope snaps. Grace keeps her mouth shut. It's taken her months to figure out what rhetorical questions are. Hope never asks when she's happy. "There's an asari, Shiala, who's trying to negotiate a contract with Erinya, another asari. Zhu's Hope is experiencing a bit of trouble. Erinya is trying to cheat them. She's racist towards humans," Hope says bitterly. "Shiala knew Shepard," she mutters under her breath, "and I have reason to believe you two can help one another."

Grace meets with a green asari intent on renegotiating the stipulations of medical contracts. The woman is surprised to see her but grateful, asking for her help once more with Zhu's Hope. Grace doesn't remember her, no matter how familiar she is. Hope stands to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with a critical eye. "I didn't know they made green asari," Grace whispers to her after her initial conversation with Shiala.

"They don't. Something's wrong with her." A beat. "Now go convince Erinya to renegotiate the contracts."

"I'm surprised you want to help an asari."

Hope smiles sardonically. "We're helping the humans on Zhu's Hope," she says, "from asari tyranny." Another smile and she stands closer, voice lowering. "I want to watch you with Erinya. This isn't like what you've done before. You can't just beat her into giving you answers—not on Illium."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Charm her. Or scare her. Your choice."

Grace intends to intimidate Erinya but as soon as the woman begins spilling her sob story, Grace hesitates. She hadn't expected Hope to give her a choice on how to handle the matter. The CAT6 academy taught her how to extract information the easy way (or the painful way, if you were on the other end of it). It's what she's accustomed to but it isn't what she likes. Without even considering better judgment she asks about Erinya's 'bondmate' and daughters. Soon the woman is in tears and not long after the contracts have been modified. Grace heads to Hope who smiles with approval.

"Shiala's eyeing you up as if you're a prized meal and she's famished. Use it to your advantage," Hope jabs a finger into Grace's chest. "Tell her it's all taken care of—but it can easily be undone. Tell her to meet you somewhere in private and ask for the Cipher."

Grace doesn't want to go anywhere with the asari. "The what?"

* * *

Maelon's brains splatter along the massive monitor. Shepard thinks of Urdnot Wrex. Any time someone's itching to cure the genophage there are problems. Miranda's lips thin but she thinks better than to say anything. Mordin's face, previously rancorous and white with rage has become blank. Shepard detects a hint of sadness in it as he stoops beside Maelon's body, the gun still smoking in his hand.

"Don't question yourself," Shepard tells Mordin. "You begin to do that and you'll lose it." Mordin takes a deep breath, an impressive achievement in the too dry planet of Tuchanka. The entire lab smells of blood and various other bodily fluids, combined with the bitter tanginess of chemicals. She pats his shoulder heavily, a poor attempt at comfort. "Son of a bitch deserved to die." Not like Ash, not like Wrex. No one told her she'd done the right thing then. Liara had touched her face after the fact, back then when it had been unlined with burning scars. _Oh, Shepard._

"Thank you, Shepard," Mordin says getting to his feet. "Apologize. Too emotional. Not like me." He takes another deep breath and then he's back to normal. "Only question left is what to do with data. Could be useful in the future but the result of irresponsible work, unethical experiments."

"Get rid of it," Miranda says. Mordin hums. Shepard steps over Maelon's corpse to get a better look at her. "These experiments were despicable. You said so yourself."

"Cut the bullshit, Miranda," Shepard watches Miranda wrinkle her nose at the air. "You didn't give two shits about putting a control chip in my head. If it wasn't for the Illusive Man I'd be nothing more than a robot. Have you forgotten that you work for Cerberus? No one gets as high up in the organization as you have without knowing what they _really_ do. And we both know, Miranda. I saw Cerberus' twisted labs, I _know_ what Cerberus did to Jack. Haven't seen you losing any sleep over that one, either."

Miranda's eyes are momentarily unreadable and the next moment they're dancing. Shepard doesn't know why but it makes her paranoid. What is she thinking? Why is she looking at her like that? "Cerberus is a human survivalist group. Without the experiments you're currently bemoaning, you wouldn't be here." She looks to the computer monitor. Mordin's fingers are gliding along the keys, pretending as if they aren't there. "We can't risk curing the genophage."

"Look, I like krogan as much as the salarians do but this," she points at the computer, "is information. We could use this."

"How?"

"I don't know," she sputters. The corners of Miranda's mouth lift gently. Shepard wants to strangle her. "But why throw it away? Maelon's experiments may be despicable but he made progress. Who knows how we could use this in the future?" She shakes her head. "Frankly, Miranda, I'm getting tired of all your xenophobic bullshit. Save the data, Mordin."

"Shepard—"

"Stand down, Miranda," Shepard threatens. Miranda's expression goes stony but she keeps quiet. They wait for the data to upload to the Normandy. It takes longer than anticipated and Shepard turns sharply when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. Her shotgun is bared but nothing is there. She lowers the shotgun and rubs her eyes, ignoring Miranda's quizzically cocked eyebrow. She needs some goddamn R&R. Fat fucking chance of getting it.

* * *

Grace tries to ignore the pain in her back. Hours ago she'd awoken on a floor. Shiala sat by a window, standing quickly upon seeing her rouse. _By the Goddess, Shepard. I thought I'd killed you. I knew my powers were unstable. I never meant to endanger you._ Now Grace wanders Illium restlessly, attempting to fend away the crippling exhaustion that has seized her, the pounding in her skull.

She tries to make sense of the images in her head, like some choppy vid, the screeching that tears through her mind, giant mechanical insects, a turian with an arm like a geth, _Saren,_ men and women, people she knew? She still isn't sure what the Cipher is. She can only assume they are memories, photographs of memories that stab into her head. There's a quarian, a turian, soldiers, a krogan and an asari that makes her feel lightheaded.

Where's Hope? She isn't sure how much time has passed since they separated. She's at a shop, mindlessly staring at model ships when there's a tap on her shoulder. Grace turns, expecting to find Hope but it's an asari, not one that she recognizes. "Commander Shepard," she says. Grace grimaces. She's getting really damn tired of being referred to that way. She tries to correct her but the pounding in her head and the fatigue keeps her from speaking. "Your presence has been requested. Please follow me."

Grace follows after her. Is it Shiala who wants to see her? Or Hope? She'd like to get off this planet. She feels shaky and weak, perspiration coating her like a second skin. She's led up a set of stairs and into an office. Grace looks around uncertainly. The space overlooks Illium and Grace can see the path she walked to get here. Displays hang seamlessly in the air, streaming constantly with chunks of text and graphs.

"Jane," the voice is unidentifiable and yet familiar. An uncomfortable chord strikes Grace as she flinches at the name. The chair behind the desk turns and an asari in a long formfitting white dress stands. Grace's mouth goes dry. Where's Hope? Once again she looks around and turns her back to her, trying to find her balance, a hand pressing to the wall. She takes a shaky breath and tries to exit. "I'm sorry. Please." A long silence passes. Grace's heart beats uncontrollably, a wave of dizziness passing over her. "I do not mean to keep sending strange women to greet you. I have a lot of work and well… I have my enemies. I hope you understand."

Grace stares at the wall, paralyzed.

"I am sorry I have not responded to your messages. The truth is…" Whatever she's going to say she isn't sure how to continue and the words fall flat. With a sense of dread, Grace turns to face her. Surprise touches on the asari's delicate features. Strange how she can look innocent and ominous in one, dark lipstick painted on the soft lines on her lips. She's beautiful. She feels guilty for thinking it. "You look better." Her smile is somewhat bashful and Grace feels hot tension sink into her as the woman approaches. "I know you said it'd be fixed. In your email," she clarifies. "I've read it more times than I can count. Some part of me thought…" she bites her lip. "It is so very good to see you." Grace looks at her anxiously. The asari brings a hand to her own forehead. "I understand if you're angry. After I saw you… I told myself I'd keep focused on my work. You've always had a talent for…distracting me," she smiles bittersweetly. "But I saw you wandering… you looked a little lost and well… I suppose I couldn't help myself."

The woman's face becomes clearer somehow. Grace can see a time when her face was fuller, she was younger, when she looked radically different somehow. "Liara…?" It's a guess. She doesn't know.

"So you can talk," Liara breathes. She comes closer but Grace pulls away. Liara stops in her tracks. "Since you're here, I might as well tell you that I can't go with you. Not now. I told you what I must do. At least you have Miranda to work in my stead. I know she seems a hard woman, Jane but you should trust her. She brought you back, after all." Grace stares at her. Liara may as well be speaking another language for all that Grace understands of what she's talking about. Liara sighs. "I never figured you one for the silent treatment. Are you well…? You look a little pale." Her hand is pressed to Grace's forehead before she can stop her, the back of her hand gliding gently down her face. Grace's cheeks heat unexpectedly. What is it with these tactile asari? Don't they understand anything about personal bubbles? Grace is a bundle of nerves. Hope would be furious and the asari's light eyes make her feel conflicted, warm and cold, disgusted and aroused.

"I'm a little tired," Grace manages, unable to meet her eyes.

"Yes, I imagine so. Hunting Collectors must take a toll."

"Collectors?" Grace asks. The asari, _Liara_, doesn't have eyebrows but her face markings rise as if in question. "Oh, right." She says but she doesn't know what it is she's talking about. The bug things, maybe? They collected people. Collectors? She's not sure. "It's been a long…everything," she finishes weakly. "I have a lot on my mind."

"I'm sure," her hands drop to Grace's, taking them. Grace looks down at their hands that the asari has linked. The blue is strange against her skin. Grace's lip curls but she forces her face to become neutral. She's still unsteady. "I know how hard this must be for you. I know your feelings about Cerberus and… I know that it's hard to be apart. It is for me, too," she says softly. Grace tries to swallow but can't. Her mouth feels as if it's been stuffed with dry leaves. "I can't give you what you need. Not now but..." Liara leans forward, connecting their lips gently. Grace's eyes widen, her heart rate spiking. Liara's mouth is soft and wet. Grace's eyes nearly close, lips nearly parting before Liara pulls away. "I apologize. I suppose that was unfair."

"It's okay," Grace says weakly, fighting the bewildering fire that fills her.

Liara smiles. "I'm lucky that you've always had a soft spot for me." She cups Grace's face, thumb easing along her cheek.

Grace takes Liara's wrist, grappling with the urge to press her lips to her fingers. This is weird. Really weird. Uncomfortable. Confusing. She forces herself to release her hand. Maybe Jane Shepard would smile at Liara. She smiles uncertainly. "I should go."

"Yes," Liara says sadly. "I imagine you should."


	10. Lazarus

A/N: Whoops. I was away for a bit but here I am. This one is a little longer than anticipated but hopefully it'll keep your attention! Thanks to the Allusive Man for edits and creativity conferring. And thanks to all you awesome readers for reviews and follows! Thanks also to you great guest reviewers- sorry I can't thank you personally! I think this story is going to be even longer than I anticipated. Man!

* * *

The white light has a soft quality. It isn't hard like the light of a lab. She hates labs. The light is comforting, warm. It embraces her. It lets her sleep. Shepard's thoughts float. She's been tired. Miranda brought her back but not all of her.

'_Shh.' _

Her arm is gently pushed down. She tastes blood in her mouth. Her teeth are loose. Her nose is twisted. The crippling pain is fading and Shepard doesn't know whether to be grateful. She's been numb since being pieced back together. It hurts to breathe.

Chakwas is clucking in her soft reassuring way. Chakwas. Where would she be without Chakwas? Chakwas keeps her grounded. Chakwas scanned her and assured her everything was all right. Shepard trusts her as much as she trusts anyone.

Another voice, Miranda. She is collected and firm. She and Chakwas exchange words. 'Keep her still,' Miranda says. A shot is injected into her neck. Will they have to strip her? Will they see that the scars extend everywhere? Will they see her naked and broken…?

No. This will fix her. This will make her suitable for Liara.

_Shepard, you need this now, no arguing._

Miranda. Not now. When? Time is relative.

She hadn't argued. Not that she could argue with a broken jaw. She drowns in memories. She thinks of Liara and when she looked at her with purity and admiration. Liara was the first to make her think about settling down. Having kids. Little blue babies. Her lips, split and bleeding, pull into a smile thinking of it. There's no pain.

Going under is slow. It takes time. It is subtle. It's like going to sleep. She remembers gliding with the stars. The memory, sparked, makes her panic. Is she dying? She hears the electronic beeping of monitoring equipment. Miranda is swearing. Is she waking up for the first time? Is she in the Lazarus Cell? Shepard tries to open her eyes.

She doesn't feel the next injection. Everything is still. There are fingertips along her forehead. Was this the right thing to do? A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start.

She goes under.

* * *

Hope worries about the alien influence. Shepard first began to betray humanity's interests when her mission against Saren forced her to work with aliens. Hope has found herself in the uncomfortable situation of having to utilize their services to prepare 'Grace' for the role she must fill.

Krogan and asari have trained her to fight. Asari gave her biotic implants. An asari gave her the Cipher but something more. 'Grace' has been quieter, thoughtful. Hope is wary that she may have been burdened with memories of Commander Shepard. The path is unclear. With Cerberus and the Illusive Man after them, they can't utilize the brightest humanity has to offer.

Now they have to see Sha'ira. Hope massages her forehead thinking about it. Is it worth it? Will 'Grace' become too sympathetic towards them? Will she start to think like Shepard? Everything she sets into motion is a delicate game. It is beginning to wear.

They're still in Illium. 'Grace' has been tired and if the previous records Hope read were accurate, Shepard too suffered from exhaustion after receiving the Cipher. It's prudent, Hope thinks, if 'Grace' rests. Outside the sky is black save for colorful streaks of cab lights that break through the darkness. 'Grace' lies on the bed, propped on pillows. A Paladin sits beside her on the nightstand. She's using Hope's laptop, ingesting more files on Shepard. The obsession that had waned has returned in full force.

Hope hadn't anticipated the visit with Shiala would take so long. She debated intervening to assess the situation but 'Grace's' vitals were relatively strong, despite the disruption. Hope left her and tracked her movements. She wasn't fast enough to catch her before she was taken to speak with Liara T'Soni. Instead, she waited some distance away for 'Grace' to exit. She did not snatch her arm as she intended to. Illium is constantly monitored and 'Grace' in that particular moment was vulnerable, they both were. So Hope remained cloaked until they could speak privately without being eavesdropped on. 'What happened?' she demanded. For hours, 'Grace' refused to tell her.

When 'Grace' finally revealed the nature of the meeting, she flinched. 'I did what I thought Shepard would do. I think they're in love.' She said it with that same stupid wide-eyed wonder she says things related to 'love' and Hope felt her aggravation mount. 'She told me I looked better,' and 'Grace' beamed then. Hope tried to recall a time she'd seen her smile in that way. 'Think she fancied me?'

'Strike that word from your vocabulary,' Hope told her irritably. She doubted 'fancy' is a word Shepard uses, at least in the context 'Grace' meant. She told herself to be mindful of her vocabulary around 'Grace'. 'Did she think it was Shepard?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.' There was a pause. 'She kissed me.'

Hope frowned. It occurred to her that Liara T'Soni had thrown a wrench into the plans and could have easily undone all her hard work. 'Grace' could have undone all her hard work. She kept her face neutral. 'And then what?' 'Grace' waited. 'What was it like?' she enunciated every word carefully and wasn't immediately sure if the clarification was the question she initially asked.

'Does it matter?' 'Grace' set her gaze on her intently and Hope loathed her for hinting that the interrogation was the cause of some jealousy. Sensing she was on thin ice, 'Grace' pushed forward. 'I didn't want to. But I did. She's pretty. For an asari.'

So what if she's pretty? 'Did you feel anything?'

'Her lips were soft.' 'Grace' quickly gathered this wasn't the response Hope was looking for. 'It was repulsive.' Hope straightened at the words, restraining herself from nodding. 'She felt…familiar. That's all,' but for the first time, 'Grace' turned her eyes evasively.

And now, Hope has to thrust her into the arms of another asari. Hope sits on the other side of the bed and once again begins the tedious process of combing through information on her omni-tool. It is tiring and it requires a good deal of sifting through data that has little relevance to their mission. It's easier on the laptop but she'll allow 'Grace' her little fixation. Her eyes are growing heavy when 'Grace' speaks.

"Liara said I looked better," 'Grace' says. Hope doesn't like the familiarity with which she says the name, as if they're friends or allies, more. "Do you think something has happened to Commander Shepard?" The distress in her tone would be laughable if it weren't so concerning. Hope wonders if 'Grace' thinks replacing Shepard will simply happen by asking her to step aside.

"For our sake we'd best hope not." Hope has impressed on 'Grace' that she isn't to get a scratch or scar on her that Shepard doesn't have. Medi-gel has mercifully taken care of some of the damage that she's incurred but 'Grace's' words worry her. What has happened to Commander Shepard that 'Grace' looks better? Perhaps the asari only meant that 'Grace' looks better rested. And she is. Without the baggage, without Shepard's sad history and failures she will be more confident, more prepared to take on the battle against the Reapers.

Hope studies 'Grace's' face, a lock of brown hair has fallen over her eyes and 'Grace' blows air distractedly at it trying to get it away, too engrossed in whatever article she's reading about Shepard to physically move. Hope reaches out to push it back but stops when 'Grace' turns her attention towards her. She snatches the computer away instead. "I think that's about enough of that for you."

* * *

Shepard stares at her reflection in the cabin mirror. The scars of her former life are gone. She tells herself she was never going to get those back. She got back her life. She can't nitpick the scars. Not like Miranda would have gotten them right anyway.

It's strange to see her face unmarred. It rejuvenates her and fills her with dizzying, hopeful energy. She doesn't have to be ashamed to be seen by Liara. It can be the way it was before. Her face throbs painfully but Chakwas assures her it is only temporary. It could be memory playing tricks on her, recalling the battering blows to her face. It's all taken care of now.

It is remarkable what modern science can do. It brought her back from the grave. It restored her attractive features. Garrus practically chortled when he saw she'd undergone the operation. 'Not everyone has the good looks to pull off scars, Shepard. Don't worry, it's not like anyone thinks you're vain.' She'd smiled, shoving him playfully. 'Looks like someone's worried they're going to have some competition during shore-leave.'

Invigorated, she leaves the cabin and takes the elevator down to the crew deck. Most do a double-take before nodding approvingly towards her. She doesn't need the validation of any Cerberus operatives but their positive response is reassuring. They avoided her eye prior, nearly winced at seeing her face. Her pupils were red for fuck's sake.

Shepard doesn't mind if people are afraid of her. They'd be stupid not to be. But not because of what she looks like, not because of some scientific screw-up. Chakwas told her a negative attitude would cause her body to reject the implants. Shepard respects the doctor but if that wasn't some Cerberus spoon-fed advice to get her to fall in line she doesn't know what is. Maybe they _knew_ the implants would fail. Maybe they _wanted_ to scare her. Break them and mold them. She understands the tactic. She admires it. But it won't work on her.

She marches into Miranda's office. The desk that Shepard previously crumpled has been replaced. When Shepard remembers the incident two feelings conflict, that of pleasure, of savoring the brief glimpse of fear in Miranda's eyes and another, more sour bitter note of shame. Shepard tries to cut herself some slack. She was dead for two years and everyone moved on. Those she cares for most won't help her, won't try to understand her. Her escalated behavior is normal, reactive. She considers talking to Kelly about it. It'll make her feel useful and valued, like she's something more than a glorified messenger girl.

Miranda turns away from the stack of data pads she's browsing and looks at her. "Shepard." She's taken aback and Shepard is happy to see her eyebrows arch, her lips part in surprise. For the first time, she realizes that the executive officer is beautiful—maybe she'd have noticed sooner if Miranda weren't always such a bitch. "You're looking well."

"Yeah," she picks up a glass tumbler from the desk, studying it before looking back at her. Shepard wonders if she's pushed Miranda to drinking. The glass is clean but that means nothing. "Guess Chakwas knows her way better around reconstructive surgery than you do." She gets only a pale, indulging smile in response. Shepard's stomach drops and she restrains herself from saying something she'll regret. This is a new beginning. They told her any future actions wouldn't affect her physical appearance but Shepard isn't sure she can trust that. It's implant after implant now. What part of her is real? "You got a minute?"

The quizzical expression on her face might have been imagined. "Sure. You rarely seek me out so I might as well take the opportunity." She sits, folds her arms to watch her. Shepard sits cautiously as if the chair has been rigged with explosives. This is a different interaction than they're used to and though Shepard is the one setting the tone she can't help but feel uneasy. A long silence passes while Shepard tries to work at what she wants to say. "I'll try to be a good hostess and let you settle in. I'm pleased. The operation went better than I expected. You were in really rough shape, Shepard. Not worse than when I got your body but damned close."

"I know," she says curtly. She bites her tongue and hunches forward, hands twined as she regards the woman. "I don't want to talk about that, if you don't mind." Miranda gives a small shake of her head that tells her she's in agreement. "We got off to the wrong foot. I'll give it to you straight—I still don't trust you or Cerberus. I've seen too much." Miranda's emotions are evasive, her face unreadable. Shepard hates her inability to get a read on her the way she can any other individual. "But… maybe there's room for my opinion to evolve." Miranda sits up straighter. "The last time I came in here I waved you around like you were a rag doll," she can't help smiling at it. Again, Miranda's face doesn't change. Shepard forces herself to bury the smile. "I never apologized. It was wrong. I'm sorry. I can't tell you what I was thinking." She takes a breath. "Things have been…damned different since I returned. I've acted out. I may not like you but that's no reason to not treat you with respect. You brought me back. It's the least I can do."

The color of Miranda's icy eyes seems to shift in the darkness. She ducks her chin thoughtfully before lancing Shepard with her gaze. "I understand that this is not an easy situation, Shepard. I'd be lying if I said you're the first to dislike me. It could be that you'll never see Cerberus as something other than a terrorist organization. However, I am happy that you're giving us the opportunity. That's all I've ever asked."

Shepard nods. She stands and when she does so does Miranda. Shepard goes to the door, hesitates and turns back to look at her. "The situation with your sister—Oriana. Has it been taken care of?" Miranda's stare is frigid again. Shepard sees that she has misunderstood her intent. "We could go. To Illium. Try to get her."

Miranda straightens, her fingertips on the desk as if to steady herself. "That's…" she takes a breath. "That won't be necessary. My father has already taken her. Her adoptive family murdered."

Shepard goes cold. "When?"

"When you were undergoing your operation, as a matter of fact," she says cleanly, the blow hard and precise like the edge of a razor. "He has the means to stay hidden for a very long time. It's likely I'll never see her again." There is an unsteadiness buried in her voice. "Neither one of us can afford to dwell on it. For now, we continue to focus on the mission. That's all we can do."

Shepard nods. She apologizes, surprised she means it.

* * *

Sha'ira sees their shadows like cutouts as she descends into the lounge area of the Consort Chambers. It's late. She reasons the attendant must be Nyla but the other woman is unidentifiable. What's clear is that there is a gun pressed to Nyla's stomach. Sha'ira hears the woman say 'I'm sorry, but I can't leave without seeing her.'

Sha'ira doesn't shy away from the scene. Violence rarely enters her domain. The geth and Saren caused irreparable damage. Many lovely souls were lost in the chaos that followed. This is different; it's manageable. Sha'ira knows the moment that she's been spotted and decides there's no longer any point in remaining silent. "I am sure Nyla has caused you no harm. There is no need for violence or intimidation." The gun is lowered and Nyla is instantly forgotten. The woman steps into the light but Sha'ira doesn't react. "Shepard." Sha'ira sent the commander word but received no response. So she does live. She had not anticipated a visit and certainly not one like this. Shepard is gruff but has never brandished a weapon in the space. "Nyla, are you all right?"

"Yes," the asari says shakily, stepping away from Shepard.

"Are you sure?" Shepard asks. Sha'ira smiles, perplexed. "I'm sorry about—I had to see her," she repeats more quietly.

"The attendants are under strict instruction to be diligent about who enters," Sha'ira reminds Shepard. "The waiting list is years now. Thank you, Nyla. That will be all."

"But I am the only one here…" Nyla says uncertainly, looking cautiously between the two women. She comes closer to Sha'ira, touching her arm gently. "I understand that she is Commander Shepard but I do not feel it is safe leaving you alone with her."

If Shepard hears the words she doesn't respond to them. Her gun is already holstered as if knowing that she is on her way to getting what she wants. She crosses her arms and keeps her back to them. Sha'ira smiles at Nyla. "I am touched by your concern but the Commander and I know one another." If Shepard has come to see her and held one of her attendants at gunpoint, she can only assume the matter is dire. However she may lament Nyla's experience, she knows how easily Shepard could have killed her had she desired to. "It is all right. You may leave us."

Nyla reluctantly leaves and Sha'ira begins to lead Shepard to the private rooms in the back, removed from the lounge area. It is fitting they meet there as they have in the past. Shepard looks around as they walk, taking in the surroundings. They arrive. Sha'ira takes a seat on the couch but Shepard remains standing. "This is the third time we've met. Last time you were experiencing a great sorrow at the loss of your crew member, Ashley Williams." Shepard comes closer slowly, cautiously, her steps more graceful than Sha'ira remembers. She frowns gently. "And then there were reports that you died. I have seen darkness in your path and difficult decisions. They have been even more grievous than I foresaw." She nods at the seat beside her and Shepard sits. "You must know that I never make exceptions for appointments."

"You've made one now."

"I think that's the least I owe Commander Shepard. You saved the Destiny Ascension. You saved us all." Sha'ira watches the crinkle that furrows along Shepard's brow. "I sense that you are in need. But of what?"

Shepard draws a breath before fixing Sha'ira in her intense gaze. "I died. They brought me back but I don't remember anything." Sha'ira's frown deepens. "Someone mentioned I'd visited before. Alliance soldiers," she says though her eyes flicker then. "I need your help. I need for you to show me…what I've lost. How I was. I need all of it."

Sha'ira weighs the request. Shepard was a great help in the past. The matter with Xeltan and Septimus could have cost her everything. Sha'ira was grateful with words, with her body. Shepard appreciated one and not the other. Yet something troubles Sha'ira about the hint of frailty in those hazel eyes. Shepard seems lost. Sha'ira has heard stories about the Collectors, about vanishing human colonies. Is it something that will spread out like a cancer over the universe like the geth? Perhaps death made Shepard afraid, made her forget. Is she Shepard anymore? "And if I don't help you?"

Shepard doesn't reach for her gun, but her eyes go hard and cold, shifting from hazel to a steely blue. Sha'ira is impressed by the sly manifestation of Shepard's biotics. Her control is remarkable; there are no tendrils of power emanating from her body. "I can't force you," Shepard says. A war rages in her mind, Sha'ira can feel it coming off her. "But it would be best for both of us if you did."

"Ah." Her words are less subtle than her biotics but the threat reassures Sha'ira that it really is Shepard come back to life. "I've been told that meeting with me is an unforgettable experience. You're the first to tell me to the contrary. You have done great deeds for the galaxy, Shepard. So I will help you." The relief that washes over Shepard's features is enough to get a smile out of Sha'ira. "Without memories it is easy to become lost. It is easy to become someone else," she glides her fingers along Shepard's cheek. She flinches and once more Sha'ira narrows her eyes thoughtfully. "You said you wanted everything back. Every memory. Is that what you still want?" She gets a grudging nod in response. Sha'ira slides closer, watching her body tense. Strange. Shepard had been so eager before. "Relax your mind, Shepard," Sha'ira's lips graze Shepard's, "and embrace eternity."

* * *

They travel for days before arriving. Noveria is more a giant chunk of ice than a habitable planet. The corporate heavy world has an icy, shining veneer, cold to the touch and slippery. It's desolate compared to the Citadel and the other planets Grace has traveled to. Individuals scurry to and fro at a hasty pace, talking to themselves. 'They're on calls', Hope tells her. It's business.

Grace doesn't like it. She doesn't like Noveria. It's cold and everyone glares. Her head feels as if it's been spiked into with a rail gun. Shards of memories have been tearing through her mind for the past few days, meaning within grasp but eluding her. She sees the funeral of a man she doesn't recognize, a woman dressed in a decorated Alliance uniform meeting her eyes, her jaw clenched tightly. There's Shepard walking across the stage, getting a sheet of paper. Graduation? Paperwork is signed, a man with a baritone voice claps her arm, shakes her hand. An asari, a turian and a salarian stare down at Shepard, hitting something on a pedestal. Sha'ira. The way Shepard took her, rough and aggressive. That memory is particularly vivid, heightened, Grace imagines, by Sha'ira's own.

Everything's out of order. Memories enmeshed. A bomb. Virmire. A bomb on Virmire. Ashley Williams…? An older matriarch. Liara T'Soni. The meld has filled her with pride, lust, sadness, insurmountable, crippling regret. For days Grace has battled depression and anger. Sha'ira's touch, her _mind_ is still fresh and Grace can recall too vividly how her flesh felt against her own, the heat of her tongue, the gentleness of her knowledgeable fingers.

Grace flushes from the memory, from guilt, from anger. She is torn between the disgust she felt at herself, at Hope, at Sha'ira for their coupling and the pleasure that cascaded over her throughout the exchange. Sha'ira appeared first confused and then mildly unsettled after she shared Shepard's past memories—if they could be called that. Fragments. Slivers of a past life. Her past life…? After all this time nothing makes sense.

She and Hope share a room with large ceiling-to-floor windows. Normally Hope avoids them but they're high up. The outside is inky darkness. Snow piles and sticks to the windows, covering them in a layer of frost. Grace is freezing. Worst yet she's stuck wearing an oversized pink sweater, some old relic left behind by a previous guest and the only thing she was able to get a hold of during their late arrival. The wind howls. Hope taps away at the computer keys. If Grace has been sullen, Hope has taken on some of her temperament. Hope finally abandoned the task of asking questions after getting only silence in return.

"Why are we here?" Grace asks sharply. Hope keeps typing on the computer. Grace glares, watching the snow whip around in the wind. She feels cool air entering the room somehow. No matter what, she can't get warm. Hope thinks she's sick but if anything has made her feel that way it's the steady stream of mind melds, of being forced to ingest memories and images that resonate yet she can't remember. Is she supposed to remember? Are they twins? Did they spend time together? Why do they look alike? Why can't she remember? Is she the real Shepard? Is the other Shepard an imposter? She has an endless supply of questions and no answers.

Hope, who is sprawled out on the bed, the computer in her lap, doesn't look at her. "Noveria is where Commander Shepard tracked down Matriarch Benezia. She was indoctrinated and had to be killed. Liara T'Soni bore witness to it. It caused ripples throughout the intergalactic community. Matriarch Benezia was one of the most influential diplomatic figures in the galaxy and she aided the greatest criminal known to man and alienkind. It was all _terribly_ tragic."

"You sound broken up about it."

"Your cocoa is getting cold." She tells her. Grace glances at the steaming mug that sits on the nightstand. She's never had cocoa. It has a sweet aroma to it. Normally she'd be pleased that Hope got her something, seemingly for the sake of simply giving it to her. Tonight it isn't enough. Hope takes a breath and sets the computer aside. "You're obviously angry about something. Let's hear it."

"I had to _sleep_ with that woman. Those were my orders."

"Many men and women would give their right arm for the opportunity. Was it not to your satisfaction?" There's a beat as Hope reads her face. "I'm hearing complaints when I ought to be hearing gratitude."

"I didn't _want_ to do that."

"But you liked it."

"I would never ask you to do that." A gust of violent wind kicks up, capable of drowning anything that might have been said between them but the time is filled with silence. "I don't know what you have planned for me but I don't want to do it." She stalks closer, eyes narrowed. "Commander Shepard has…endured…so much pain and anguish. She has _earned_ her accomplishments. I'm _not_ her. I never will be. If you gave a damn about me you wouldn't make me do these things. Do you know how tiring it is? Do you know how confusing? Each time you make me do something new everything that I have sorted goes into a tailspin. Why do you make me do things I should hate? Why do I like them?" she takes a handful of Hope's shirt and yanks her to a sitting position. Why did she sneak into a porn theater to watch asari vids near a year ago? Why do her feelings contradict her thoughts? Hope looks at her with an emotion Grace doesn't recognize. Grace's voice is clenched with feeling and she nearly confesses her love again. She swallows the words. She can't bear the thought of Hope's ridicule. Not now. It might push her to tears. "Why would you let me do something like that? It would kill me to watch you go to someone else."

"You'll have to do more difficult things," Hope's fingers glide along Grace's hand. "You'll have to know what Shepard likes. You'll have to know her preferences. You'll have to know how she fights, how she talks, how she fucks. Every shred is part of what makes her who she is. You'll have to know all of that and more and maybe it won't be enough."

Grace glares, her eyes glistening, the grip on Hope's shirt as firm as ever. Business. It's always logical, sorted business with her. "Why can't I remember anything?" Hope stares at her. Her eyes shift away from Grace's face. It's the first time she's looked away from her. Grace notes that it's significant in some way but is too tangled with emotion to make sense of it. "I won't be her." She lets Hope go. "Forget it. Forget all of this. I can't. I won't." Hope slumps back onto the bed. She straightens her shirt moments later. "Why am I not enough?"

Grace crashes to a sitting on the bed. She wipes at her eyes discreetly. Hope's hand touches on her back. Grace stares at the pathetic bright sleeves of her sweater. "You're meant for so much more. More than even you or I could conceive." Her hand rubs gently along her back. "We can't turn back. This surpasses us. Our wishes don't matter anymore."

Grace swallows the lump in her throat. She tries to speak, tries to tell Hope she can't continue but is unable to. Hope's lips brush along her neck, where some errant tear has escaped to. She rests her forehead on Grace's back. "I can't imagine how difficult it is to take so much into your mind. This was the last." Her fingers glide along her arm reassuringly. "I promise you won't have to do that ever again." Grace releases a long, shuddering breath.

* * *

The starboard observation deck is warmer than she remembers. Shepard stands at the window, gazing out at the sea of black. Stars throb with life. She's being observed. It's better to be here with a new face. It's easy to be here with a new start. Shame knots her stomach. She clenches her fists experimentally, happy she can ball them again, strike. Better. Everything will be better. She most of all.

"Your face is much improved since our last meeting, Shepard."

Shepard stiffens. The soft click of heels strike into the floor. She hates Samara's voice. Hates Samara's face. Blue hands clasp Shepard's face tightly, forcing her to look. Her eyes are so pale and blue she looks blind. She's flawless. Spotless. Shepard averts her eyes and gets a chuckle in response.

"It wasn't so long ago you couldn't take your eyes off me. Wanted me."

"Stop it," Shepard growls. A touch slides down her face. The woman turns away, returning to the couch, sitting. Her posture is relaxed. One leg crossed over the other. Hands twined demurely in her lap. Shepard tightens her jaw to keep it from quivering. She reminds herself that no matter her actions, regret is something she cannot allow. Questioning herself will get her nowhere. What's done is done.

Morinth wanted Shepard. Despite the scars she saw something linking them. Maybe she saw a killer, same as her. She was stunned to see Samara but Samara was a predator, prowling into the room, ready to end Morinth.

The fight was brutal. The apartment was ripped asunder, furniture battered and knocked over, blood everywhere. Samara found her adversary to be an exceptionally talented biotic, an unfeeling killer who ended countless lives.

Shepard considered the woman who could murder a daughter for being born with a genetic disorder. There was an opportunity. Life is about taking opportunities. Samara promised to kill her when their suicide mission was complete. Shepard didn't want to take any chances. Yet there it was—the shock in Samara's eyes when Shepard betrayed her.

She nearly regretted it. For Samara to be surprised meant there was some part of her that believed she was noble and good. There was a part of the asari that thought there was something redeemable about her. But Shepard remembered her words. Samara didn't see the worlds in greys. It was black and white. One must be ended or they must not. Personal feelings were irrelevant. Samara decided long ago that Shepard must die. Samara was a killer. Unfeeling and merciless. Like her. Like Morinth. All of them just reflections of each other.

_Shepard strikes first, taking advantage of the standoff between Morinth and Samara. The first blow collides solidly. Samara wipes blood from her mouth, momentarily dazed. The next instant she understands. Shepard's thrown onto her back, the heel of Samara's boot nearly crushes her windpipe. Shepard rolls away, jumping to her feet. Her foot finds the asari's stomach; she follows the assault with a knee to the face._

_Samara hardly makes a sound. Shepard admires that, even as Samara hurls her to the wall. Shepard hears things crack, tastes blood in her mouth as Samara glides through the air, punches a fist through the wall where Shepard had been only an instant before. _

_Samara's initial attack against Shepard was devastating. It's taken a lot out of her, made her slow and disoriented. She's never had an adversary like the Justicar before and it shows. Samara's fist pounds into her face, once, twice, a crunch is followed by a geyser of blood that erupts from her nose, another punch and teeth come loose, her jaw unhinging. _

_Shepard launches into the air, slamming biotic energy into the ground, blowing them all back. Morinth tries to enter the fray but a deadly look from Shepard keeps her in place. Samara flies back and Shepard charges, biotic energy and adrenaline forcing her to move through the pain._

_Samara is remarkable. A goddess of death. She rips one of the swords from the wall with deadly elegance. Shepard thought they were ceremonial but as it slices into her arm, tears into her stomach Shepard learns with excruciating agony how wrong she was. _

_Morinth makes commentary but Shepard doesn't hear any of it. She dodges a swipe, springs to her feet, grappling Samara's arm, breaking it. The asari finally cries out. The sword falls. Shepard presses her advantage, knocking her feet out from under her, straddling her, bleeding all over her. Samara judges her. Those icy eyes loathe her. Shepard doesn't have a snappy quip. She's dizzy and losing consciousness, losing strength. She grips Samara's head and with the last of her reserves, twists it savagely. Her neck snaps. Shepard's fear drains with Samara's life and with it, she worries, some part of her humanity._

_She slumps away from Samara, her nose bent and throbbing. She can't speak. The sounds she makes are ugly. Morinth looks down at the both of them blankly before pulling the clothes from Samara. _

_Shepard stares wide-eyed at the dead asari, naked and broken, lifeless. Shepard's eyes are dry, unblinking, riveted on her carcass as Morinth dresses. _

_Morinth drags her away. Blood runs down Shepard's face, her arms, her stomach. She shouldn't have left her fucking armor behind. Morinth's mouth moves, smiles, her voice shifting: heavier, somber, urgent when they spot Miranda hovering near the Purgatory entrance, clearly alarmed at Shepard's condition._

Morinth presses her back to the cushion. "Having regrets? I thought you were bolder than that."

There is something contemptuous to her tone and Shepard hates her, hates herself for bringing the viper into their midst. What kind of a woman can kill another and take over her life? What kind of woman can live that kind of life? What kind of woman can forgive it? Can keep the secret? What must it be to live a lie? How exhausting. How exhilarating. The galaxy's greatest prank.

Shepard tells herself Samara deserved her death. The fight was fair. Shepard won. If Samara had taken her it would have meant something. It would have meant she was wrong. It would have meant she didn't deserve to live; she wasn't fit to lead. But Samara was taken. Samara died. It's okay. Survival of the fittest. The Reapers are still coming. She's the only one who can stop them. She needs to live. Even if she isn't sure she should, even if she isn't sure that she wants to.

"Don't talk like her in here," Shepard says. She sits next to her on the couch. Morinth smiles. Shepard drapes her arm over the back of the couch and slides closer, looking at her. Morinth's smiles are easy and inviting. Samara was aloof and judgmental. She taunted her about Liara. "It's remarkable." Shepard touches Morinth's face. She feels the same. The strong jaw. The cutting lines to her face. Shepard trails her thumb along the curves and Morinth shifts her face as necessary, as if putting on a demonstration for a new, top of the line product. "You're remarkable."

"As are you, Shepard. I never imagined a human could be so daring. Watching you kill my mother was…exhilarating. She was after me for a long time. I always knew it'd come down to just her or me. Life is like that, you know. There are some people that can't co-exist."

Is that true…? "Is that what you really think?"

"You did the right thing. Deep down, you know it too. Someone who denies herself the pleasure of living shouldn't go on existing. Only the strong survive. In life, people like us are at the top of the food chain. We shouldn't feel guilty about that. We should be proud." There's a beat. "Don't worry. No one will ever find out about my mother. I'll be able to carry out the mission as well as she would have. Better."

Shepard leans into the couch and feels herself relax. For days she's been wound tight. Samara was a threat. She was eliminated. She has a new face. She's reborn. She's been given a new opportunity, just as Morinth has.

It's a fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Sometimes things need to be replaced. Sometimes that's the only way it gets better.


	11. Butcher

A/N: This chapter is extremely NSFW for sexual situations and violence. Thanks to Allusive for massive edits and sprucing! Updates will slow due to the Foundation Origins Mass Effect comic continuing to throw me for a loop with Hope/Maya past revelations... Sigh sigh sigh. As always, thanks for taking the time to review and follow!

* * *

Mess Sergeant Rupert Gardner tears open a few ramen spice packets, dumping them into the bubbling grey sludge in the pot. Gardner's arm strains as he stirs the meal. It looks like a mixture of oatmeal and cement. He dips a finger into the stew, swearing at how it burns. He winces at the preliminary taste; the flavor is worse than the smell. It tastes like spicy chalk.

Shepard never got the ingredients he asked for. She was checked out of their initial and only conversation before Gardner finished his first sentence. Now he's got a ship full of asswipes telling him his food stinks. Worse yet, there's a clogged toilet in the men's and a leaking shower faucet in the women's. The damned AI aboard the Normandy never fails to remind him of all the little things that need doing and doesn't leave anything to chance—quickly warning him when there may be female staff in the shower area and barring him from going in to make repairs. He can't remember the last time he saw an actual woman naked.

Gardner sighs inwardly and looks through the pathetic collection of ingredients he has left. Wilted, floppy celery and a can of peaches older than most matriarchs. The matriarch in the observatory isn't bad. Eyes are a bit spooky. No one Cerberus should be working with but he knows what rung he's at on the ladder. Shepard hasn't acknowledged his existence in months and Miranda is as unfeeling a woman as ever. He can't knock the way she fills out her uniform, though.

He scratches the stubble on his face, glancing at Kelly Chambers who's positioned herself at the counter. He gives the stew another few solid stirs, feeling his bicep start to burn. "Come back later. Todays fine cuisine's not done yet."

"We'll be touching down on Zorya at any minute," Kelly tells him, her voice practiced and even. He doesn't turn around. "Zaeed asked that you save him a few servings. He'll be hungry after 'killing that nasty son-of-a-bitch' he said—though his language was a bit more colorful." Gardner smiles. Chambers' duties seem as tedious as his. "And Kasumi asked that you not use her instant noodles." They look at the empty silver packets, several of the dried noodles having fallen to the floor. "She's warned you about it before."

"She'll live," he grouses.

Bunch of no-good spoiled soldiers, as if he doesn't have anything better to do. Now they're acting like he's running a goddamn restaurant. At least they're human. He joined Cerberus because of the batarians. He was expecting to work with humans, to give humanity an edge. He's never seen as many tentacles or frogs as he has recently. He wanted to stand for something. These days, more often than not, he has to settle for standing in front of a stove. He rips open another ramen package in frustration.

* * *

X8. It. The Clone. She. 'Grace'.

She hasn't had as many identities as Hope has. Where Hope uses aliases as a one-way pass to her goals, the clone is fixated on having only one identity: that of an unassuming other. Hope wonders if she pushed the clone too hard too fast. There is so much work to do. If it wouldn't cripple the clone, she'd have her working around the clock. They have to be ready. Hope won't do the clone any favors by taking it easy on her.

The clone's breath is warm along her skin. She guides Hope's shirt up, planting kisses up her stomach. She's rebellious lately. Hope has been letting her get away with too much but beating down what is surely Shepard's rancorous temperament would be a disservice. If Hope does her job properly, the clone will be no different from Shepard. Hope will be the one taking orders.

Once the clone is secure, confident, commanding, what will she do with Hope? She'll betray her. It won't matter how she helped the clone. It will be forgotten and she'll become expendable, just as she did to _Ms. Brooks._ The clone has stopped moving and Hope glances down. The clone remains dressed and on all fours, studying the three-inch scar along her abdomen, wider than the ninjato. Kai Leng didn't bother being careful taking it out. Bruising remains along her sides and ribs.

Hope has never taken such a beating. She's lucky to have escaped with her life. What happens if Kai Leng comes after them again? What happens if Grace—'Grace'—the clone—isn't prepared? The clone eases her thumb along the raised flesh, causing Hope to hold her breath.

They're in another safehouse, this one on Therum. It's smaller than what they're used to. They have little room for privacy. There's a bed, a couch and a television that doesn't work. The air conditioning is functional and Hope is grateful for small mercies. Gra—the clone asks her what she's thinking of. The question comes more often recently and Hope has been dangerously close to answering on occasion. She blames the exhaustion, the constant moving and traveling. Nearly a year of it will take a toll on any person. Being hunted by Cerberus is a difficult life.

Hope will not tell Gra—the clone of her former life. It isn't her business and anything the clone has on her might compromise everything—her, most importantly. She has spent the majority of her life trusting nobody. What is it like for the sad individuals that think others can be trusted? Are they happy? Do they feel achingly tired as she does at times? When the tables turn, how do they cope? Do they just die?

"I'm thinking of you," Hope says. It elicits a smile from the clone, "and Shepard." A small line marks her brow. "I know how you like to look at me and touch me." The clone moves over her, palming her face, her contact too delicate. "I want you to fuck me the way Jane would." The clone's hand doesn't fall away. It remains. Her hazel eyes shift to green. "I want you to," she repeats softly.

Hope has heard stories of Shepard's sexual prowess. Her fixation on chatty asari women did and didn't do her service. Shepard isn't shy about kissing and telling. The clone does a lovely job. She treats Hope as if she means something, as if it means anything, as if they weren't just tools to one another to get to a mutual destination. It's confusing. Detrimental. Hope curses herself for not investing in a vibrator. Now she has a scar on her body that will never go away. One incurred for the clone. She could have tracked down X3. She's mostly okay. Maybe there was another model that was close to ready but Grace is perfect. Grace only needs to be led. X8, Hope reminds herself. "I'm going to start calling you Jane."

"No," the clone says, eyes wide, almost fearfully. "No, please." Her hand wraps around Hope's fist. "Do you know what that will do to me?" It will harden her. It will possibly push her away. Only moments ago Hope was determined and now her resolve is waning. "I feel so confused," she confesses softly.

Hope brings a hand to her face. The clone half-closes her eyes, turning her face so her lips brush Hope's palm. "You have an identity. A worthy one. Some people don't have that. Some people have nothing." She's never held on to identities for very long but taking X8 will guarantee that nothing in her life will be constant or stable, safe. "You _are_ Shepard. What you've read… what you've seen…" she doesn't know how to explain it. "You have to trust me."

The words usually pass her lips with little problem. Listening to herself, she can detect no irregularities or hiccups, any catches that give her away. Yet the declaration leaves her feeling as if she's covered in oil. She isn't lying to the clone. So what if she were? What's she supposed to tell her? That she was created for the Butcher of Torfan? It should be that easy. It will be, Hope tells herself. In time. Once she's ready. She's been delaying it for a year now. If the clone can't handle it, she'll be useless to her.

"I do trust you," the clone says. Hope doesn't know how long she's been holding her breath. It burns in her lungs. The clone says the words naturally, with no sense of irony. What kind of trusting creature is she? "But I'm not Jane." Hope sits up and nods in disagreement, taking hold of the hoodie she wears and unzipping it. Hope slides it off her shoulders. "I don't want to. Not like that."

"You might like it," Hope says. Their faces touch. Her cheek is soft. Her breath is short. "Show me," she starts to peel the tanktop away. "You need to get used to it. You may as well start with me."

"Why can't I have anything that's my own?"

"I'm not yours, 'Jane'. And you'll never be mine. One day you'll realize that and you'll be relieved. You'll use it when it's convenient, you'll use it to excuse your actions," her words halt when the clone takes a hold of her face tightly. Her eyes are narrowed, pulsing green and blue. Hope wants to look away. Before she can think further, before she can blink she's been flipped onto her stomach, her pants ripped away. Cold air slaps Hope's skin as her shirt is literally torn from her.

Shepard's arm thrusts between her legs, her hand cupping her mound. Another hand wraps angrily around her throat, yanking her up brutally against her body. Hope can't get any air into her lungs. Shepard bites her shoulder, leaves a mark, shoves her digits inside before forcing Hope down on the bed, ass in the air, shoulders touching the pillow.

The clone shifts enough of her clothing down to grind her sex and fingers up to the knuckle forcefully against Hope's. It's so markedly different from what Hope has experienced with her that she cries out. It makes sense. It's Jane Shepard. This is Jane Shepard. The clone is Jane Shepard's shadow—for the time being.

Shepard overpowers her easily. If Hope wanted to fight back she wouldn't stand a chance. She can't engage her in physical combat. Not ever. She makes a note of it. No one has ever been brazen enough to treat her this way in a sexual context. As if she were nothing. Hope breathes Jane's name. It's easier that way. It creates a distinction. Not that there is one, really. It encourages the clone whose reservations have gone. She fucks her with a rigorous, angry focus. Hope listens to her aching, raspy breaths. The world disappears. The bed shakes. It's like they're other people. People who have vigorous, bruising sex, who bite and scratch until marks are left. Hope's legs are weak and unsteady.

The hot aggression makes her ribs and body ache. Hope realizes she wasn't as recovered as she thought. When she comes it's with a hand tightly wound around her neck, Shepard's hard body pressed to her back. The ensuing flood of ecstasy is like a betrayal. Hope doesn't know why she thinks that. It's the same person with a different approach.

"Sometimes I really fucking hate you," Shepard growls.

Everything is still. Then Shepard releases her neck, a hand sliding down to cup her breast hard. She shoves Hope away but is almost instantly on her, trailing kisses that are more like bites down her back when she arrives at the other end where the ninjato came out. Shepard stops and Grace returns, her fingers careful and stroking where earlier they pumped mercilessly inside of her. A kiss is pressed to the scar tenderly and Hope closes her eyes, unable to stop her maddening heartbeat. Grace rests her forehead on Hope's back and exhales shakily. Hope reaches back, runs her hand along Grace's arm, taut and trembling.

Hope's sorry but she's not sure for whom.

* * *

Zorya is sweltering and sticky. Perspiration begins beading on Shepard's face as soon as her feet hit the ground. Lush vegetation, teeming with chittering, chirping life, chokes the landscape. Pretty much the whole planet is like this, she's told. Fuck. No wonder it looks green from orbit. Zaeed warns the group to keep an eye out for ambushes, but Shepard's hands are full just trying to avoid tripping over vines. She resists the urge to shoot at the pyjaks that scamper around them as if looking for opportunities for mischief. Fucking parasites.

EDI has patched them into the Blue Suns communications channel. They listen to Vido bark out orders to his people as they make their way through the overgrown terrain. The guy sounds like a jerkoff but Zaeed hasn't been forthcoming about why he's after him. Shepard figures she's lost count of the people she's killed. Killing someone for a member of her team seems honorable enough—more so than blowing their brains out for looking at her the wrong way anyway.

She may have initially distrusted Zaeed but the old man's all right. He's with Cerberus for credits. She gets that. And he's working for her. They push forward, seeing the factory in the distance where the Blue Suns have holed up and are holding the workers hostage. She regrets not bringing a water bottle. She's dehydrated and her head is pounding.

Fungal life is as abundant as any other kind here. Oversized mushrooms, many larger than her head, sprout wildly from the ground and trees. Zaeed points out deadly spore sacs as they go, which they warily give a wide berth. Shepard's spent a lot of time in space ships, space stations but not much time on planets that resemble tropical jungles. Giant palm trees stretch overhead, the giant billowy palm leaves creating shadows and shielding them from the grueling, yellow light of the sun. The rare shaft of light that manages to pierce the canopy illuminates air that is thick with spores, insects and dust. The squad comes across abandoned crates and vehicles, rusted and rotting, foliage growing out of them as the jungle lays claim to them. Spiders the size of large tarantulas climb the trees lethargically, seemingly unconcerned about the intruders tromping through their territory. Shepard frowns, warning the group. "Wait till you see the snakes," Zaeed tells her.

Fucking great.

When they come across two dead bodies Kasumi tsks, M-9 Tempest in hand in anticipation of any attack. Zaeed shakes his head. "Shot in the back and left to rot. That's definitely Vido's style."

"An enemy is an enemy. Doesn't matter how you get the job done," Shepard says. Zaeed fixes her with his glassy eye, the lines that cut a permanent scowl into his face burying deeper. "Let's just go take the son-of-a-bitch out," she's tired of Zorya already. All she wants is to remove her helmet and wipe the sweat from her face. No, take a cleansing shower. First they have to get off this rock. "Let's move."

He nods and they move on. The Blue Suns are everywhere, moving in coordinated packs. As her unit dives for cover, Shepard's heart beats with excitement. There is nothing like the thrill of battle—only an exceptional fuck can match it. She hasn't taken Kasumi anywhere before but thought if they were going to be breaking into a factory, a master on infiltration couldn't hurt. Besides, if Kasumi wants her to get that graybox for her, she's going to have to earn it.

Shepard yanks the M-6 Carnifex from its holster and takes a few shots, nailing a Blue Sun in the arm. Kasumi, beside her one instant is gone the next. She appears behind the injured Blue Sun, taking a dagger from who knows where and burying it in the crevice between armor and helmet. The mercenary collapses lifelessly to the ground and Kasumi's soon back to where she was, grinning. "Nice trick," Shepard says.

"Thanks, Shep," she cloaks with another grin, "but we should probably chat less and kill more."

"Agreed." Shepard doesn't know where she goes. Fancy trick, that. Here one moment. Gone the next. Seems convenient but she's never cared for infiltrators, for subtlety. She likes the visceral violence of a fight. Over the gunfire she can hear Zaeed laughing almost manically, screaming about 'sons-of-bitches'. The accuracy of his shots, the mods on the sniper-rifle reduce the Blue Suns shields and heads to nothing. She holsters the Carnifex; she's never been a side-arm kind of gal and removes the M22-Eviscerator from her back. She hones in on a group of Suns and catapults to them on a biotic wave. The world shifts around her as she seems to move forward in space, slowing time to a crawl, blowing them back before blasting them away at point blank range with the shotgun.

Blood mists her helmet and she smiles, satisfied. The sandy ground greedily soaks the blood in. There's a Blue Sun trying to crawl away, wheezing for mercy. Kasumi and Zaeed fall in step next to her and Shepard walks slowly behind the mercenary. Some medi-gel could probably patch him up. She has some on hand but she goes to him, puts her foot on his back pinning him to the ground before aligning the barrel with the back of his head and pulling the trigger.

Meat chunks hit her helmet and hardsuit. Her smile remains gently on her lips. Mercy is for suckers.

* * *

Grace takes too long in the scalding water of the shower before toweling off. For some minutes she sits on the toilet, her chin in her hand, tearing her hands through her hair before standing. She paces the best she can in a space that is only wide enough for her to stretch her arms to her sides but not to the front and back.

Grace wipes the mirror with the side of her curled fist and stares at her reflection. Commander Jane Shepard. Hope called her that and she… She punches the mirror before she can stop herself. The glass crunches, spider-cracks rippling throughout. Her reflection is distorted and Grace looks down at her bleeding fist. Just a few scratches. She washes her hands, rubbing where they're cut. It isn't enough to leave a scar.

She thinks of her fingers thrusting into Hope, digging into her flesh, curling her hair around her fist, turning Hope's face so she couldn't see as she fucked her senseless. Senselessly, maybe. Shame burns her cheeks, worsening when she feels a familiar throbbing at her center. Once again she crashes to a sitting on the toilet, face in her hands. How could she enjoy something like that? It seemed… hostile, angry, like some self-serving punishment. Degrading and selfish. The only time she turned Hope around was to hold her in place, grind herself against her mouth. She didn't give a fuck about what Hope was feeling, only doing what _she_ wanted. Why would Hope ask her to do that? Maybe she knew what was in store. Maybe she preferred it to their more tender unions. How could she say Shepard's name like that?

It's all right if she's Shepard. She's Shepard. Commander Jane Shepard. Grace dwells on the memory longer, trying to analyze it but is flushed with a hot, physical response instead of any real understanding.

Her face is fire. The insides of her thighs are slick now and she stands, yanks toilet paper free to wipe herself off before quickly dressing. The air outside of the bathroom is immensely cooler but there's nowhere she can be by herself to think. Hope has dressed and made the bed. She sits on the couch, the laptop on the much shorter coffee table ahead of her. Grace twines her fingers nervously and picks up the hoodie from the floor, sitting next to her. She doesn't know what to say and distractedly plays with the material of the hoodie resting on her lap.

"What happened to your hand?" Hope looks at the computer when she asks, her tone impatient, absent.

"The mirror in the bathroom fell."

"I didn't hear it." She takes Grace's hand, looks at it and lets it go.

The lie is pathetic. Too pathetic for Hope to call her out on. "I wanted to say I'm sorry." That's a start anyway and she hopes it allays any ill that Hope may be feeling. Grace is left the same: uncomfortable and gutted, hot.

"For what?" She presses a few keys on the keyboard.

Grace wonders if Hope is so indifferent. "For… for all of it, I guess. For what I said. I didn't mean it. I don't… even know where it came from," she finds her fingers clasping together again and she forces her hands to separate. "I don't feel that way. I could never hate you."

A smirk touches her lips. She looks at Grace then, temporarily forgetting about the computer. "You gave me exactly what I asked for and I enjoyed it. In fact… what we did before paled in comparison." Grace frowns, unsure of how to react to the words. Her chest is beginning to heave. Hope brushes her thumb along her brow. "Don't frown, your face will freeze that way." Her hand falls away and she stands, leaving the couch to look out the blinds of the window. "I think you've watched too many vids. You think what you see in that sentimental garbage is what adults do but it isn't. What you did is who you are. There's no sense in feeling guilty about it."

"I don't think Shepard would do that with Liara T'Soni."

Hope turns sharply, her brown eyes hot and then dampening. "I am not Liara T'Soni. And what do you know? Asari invented kinky sex. A few mind melds and you think you've got it all figured out? If only it were that easy."

"I know what I _feel_," Grace snaps. Hope turns her back to her and rubs her forehead. She sighs softly. Grace gets to her feet and stands beside her. It's strange that she's afraid to touch her, to be rejected after everything they just did. But that was for Shepard. That wasn't for her. Or was it? "I need some fresh air," she says softly.

"Take the gun," she crosses her arms. "And be careful."

Grace stands beside her. She reaches out to brush the hair back from her face but Hope wrenches away. Grace stares at her. She wonders if she could hate her. Then she takes the Paladin from the coffee table and exits.

* * *

Grace is sweating the instant she leaves the safehouse. At a scorching 59 degrees Celsius, Grace doesn't see the reasoning behind wearing the hoodie outside of preventing any sunburn and shrouding her identity. As far as planets go, Therum doesn't rank in terms of beauty. Home to more than a few volcanoes, the land is mountainous and rocky. Unclaimed Prothean ruins dot the landscape. Grace would like to explore them sometime, try to make sense of the mosaic of destruction that fills her mind. Maybe she should read Liara T'Soni's papers. She's some kind of Prothean expert, isn't she?

Grace tries not to think about her, returning her attention to the landscape. The locations that have been settled are more habitable but it's a mining planet. The air has a sour sort of smell. Factories pump polluting chemicals into the skies. It makes for stunning vistas that burn in all hues.

Hope made some offhanded remarks about mining facilities upon their arrival, the abuses suffered within at some plants and then moved on to the Shepard Nostalgia Tour as Grace has taken to calling their travels. Therum was once overrun by the geth, led by Saren to hunt down Matriarch Benezia's daughter, Liara T'Soni. This was the planet where they met. All Grace has is a flash of some containment field with a much younger looking, panicked Liara being held afloat. It's only a scrap, a splinter of a memory, gleaned from the meld with Sha'ira. It's all she has. That and a warm feeling that can't be attributed to the murderous heat of Therum.

She wipes the sweat from her face and moves through the grated walkways that clank with her every step. Clumps of individuals, miners, maybe, from the Eldfell-Ashland mining facilities, watch her. They have facilities in Zorya too, if she's not mistaken. She's distracted, her thoughts having wandered once more to Hope and Liara to pay them too much attention. She ducks into a small, dilapidated establishment, hoping to find some reprieve from the heat.

The building looks to be a seedy bar. It's dirty with boarded-up windows and a counter lined with worn stools. The bartender is a grizzled man with a mop of brown hair and a stained towel slung over his shoulder. He cuts into a lemon with a butcher knife. Some of the patrons turn to look at her but quickly lose interest. The bar isn't air conditioned. She's parched and moves to the bar. It's riddled with bullet holes, part of the counter shaved off. "Water," she says.

The bartender cuts another lemon in half, squeezing it into a grimy glass with his massive hand. She thinks of Floyd and Volkova and Santos but buries the thought. Hope tells her memories will lead her astray but without them Grace is lost. As long as she remembers all she's ever done is flounder. "You want water? Go somewhere else," he says. "Talk to me when you want a real drink."

She tastes salt on her lips. Sweat makes her shirt and hair cling to her. "Then get me a real drink," she smiles but her words are short and enunciated. She doesn't have time for idiots trying to show off.

He stabs the knife into the cutting board, fixing her with a mean smile. "Sure thing, Princess."

"It's Grace. Asshole," she mutters the last under her breath.

Seemingly indifferent to her preferred title, he slinks to the back-room. Some of the patrons that previously lined the bar stand and exit. Grace sighs. She wonders how long this kind of life can continue. She doesn't have a home. She's constantly shuffled from spaceship to spaceship, shuttle to shuttle. Shepard grew up a Spacer kid. Is this what it felt like? Maybe, Grace thinks, she grew up with Shepard too. Maybe they know one another. Has Hope met Shepard? Has Hope done those things with her before? Is that why she prefers them? Grace again thinks back again to the brutal coupling, to the intense satisfaction she felt, the small waves of pleasure still seeming to course through her, making her body hum.

The bartender returns with a drink, slapping the greasy tumbler down next to her. Grace picks it up. The liquid is a smoky purple and blue. She has a sip. Behind the bar there's trail of red on the floor snaking around the corner into the other room.

Her drink is sour with a hint of sweetness beneath. A chalky smell fills her nostrils. The confusing amalgam of emotions she experienced before slowly taper off. Her head is fuzzy, her vision shifting from blurry to focused. The bartender's towel is spotted red. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She slams the drink on the counter, wiping her mouth.

Six soldiers in white and gold hardsuits enter, an orange crest stamped to their chest. They have the builds of the miners she passed earlier. They're heavily armed. She straightens. The room tilts as if being shifted by the tides. The barrel of a gun touches the back of her head. The vibrations of the contact move through her. Is she hallucinating? Her mouth goes dry.

"The Illusive Man wants her alive," one of them says, his voice electronic and unidentifiable, echoing. Who's the Illusive Man? "But subject is considered armed and dangerous. Fire at—"

Grace acts. She lifts an arm, tendrils of blue flowing around her. Her body bristles as she unleashes an explosive shockwave that tears the floor apart, blowing the soldiers around in all directions. She shifts sharply to the right, anticipating the bullet the bartender fires and leaping onto the counter, snatching the butcher knife from the cutting board. A wave of nausea assaults her and she wavers unsteadily. The soldiers are scrambling to their feet, the bartender lining up his next shot. Grace tries to focus, pulls the gun from him and tackles him to the ground, tumbles maybe, she isn't sure. The bartender is grappling at her face. She buries the knife into his neck and holds it there, pushing herself to a sitting. He gurgles but he doesn't matter. A glance back reveals there's no exit from the small room. A relatively fresh corpse is huddled in the corner.

This was a setup. This was all a setup. Her mind races, she forces herself to calm and keeps low, shrouding herself in a barrier that pulses erratically. Why didn't she put on a hardsuit? She should have known. She should have learned that there are enemies everywhere.

She decides she'll kill them all. It won't be difficult. It might even be fun.

One of the soldiers speaks. "Surrender, Grace. You have nowhere to go, no one to turn to. Your accomplice, Hope Lilium, is dead." Grace freezes, her blood running cold, a fresh wintry sweat springing to her skin. She's intensely dizzy, her heart barreling out of her chest. She shakes. "Kai Leng terminated her on Bekenstein two months ago."

What? She tries to peer out but gets a hail of bullets in response. She can't stop shaking. The blue of her biotics flushes the room. She needs to keep it together. Keep it together. Keep it together. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The bartender makes a drowning sound and Grace absently twists the knife, ending him.

She forces slow, steady breaths. She survived the batarian and turian a year ago, without knowing how to fight, without biotic training, in much worse condition than she is now. The drink contained a powerful sedative but she barely let the liquid touch her tongue. Nothing she can't push through. These men are after her. These … people think Hope is dead. Must have been part of the group that went after her. Part of the group that Grace vowed to tear apart. Cold sweat runs down her face, tapping onto the filthy floor.

She decides she'll kill all of them except one.

* * *

The factory is on fire. Zaeed is a son-of-a-bitch. A goddamned crazy son-of-a-bitch. Shepard can't stop grinning. He may have forced her hand but the plan is brilliant. Vido's lost his advantage. As pissed as she should be, Shepard can't say she would have gotten approval from a commanding officer to put the plan into motion. The element of surprise is everything.

"Weren't we supposed to rescue the workers from the Blue Suns?" Kasumi asks lightly, but she's audibly annoyed. "I like a challenge as much as anyone else but I don't like to run _into_ fires." She pulls back her cloak some. "It gets hot."

Shepard yanks her helmet off and wipes her face with the palm of her hand before slipping it on again. The heat of before has become unbearable and she is now literally dripping with sweat. Zaeed looks like a mad dog, as if he hasn't noticed that the very air is sizzling. He's already running ahead, looking back at them impatiently. "Are you two going to stand around braiding each other's hair all day? We need to get moving!"

Shepard and Kasumi exchange looks, trotting up to him. He's already emptying clips into approaching Blue Suns, before fixing Kasumi and Shepard with a contemptuous stare. "Watch the attitude, Zaeed," Shepard pulls out the M-6 Carnifex. "You're not the only one who can hit a target between the eyes." Another explosion rattles the factory and they quickly adjust to maintain their balance. Blue Suns bodies litter the walkway into the factory. Shepard rubs her temple.

"I have been working at this for twenty years. And in case you forgot, that was part of the deal for coming to work with Cerberus," Zaeed gets in her face and Shepard cocks her head, not bothering to step back. "Cerberus bastards may not know the meaning of honor. I don't. But you're supposed to," he taps her chest piece with the M-96 Mattock, "and we're going to go after Vido and if we don't get him I'll have your goddamned head."

Shepard cocks her fist back, slugging him hard with a fist wrapped in biotic energy. He stumbles, nearly falling but catching himself on a rusty crate. Shepard marches over, glaring down at him. "I hear why you want to get Vido. Hell, revenge is one of my favorite pastimes. But in case you forgot, I'm the one in charge. You answer to _me_, Zaeed. And if you try another crazy stunt without my say so I'll finish what Vido started and blow your fucking brains out. Same if you even _think_ of threatening me again. Are we _clear_?" His gaze is deadly, the man practically shaking with rage. "I asked you a question, Zaeed. Do we want to go get Vido or are we going to waste more time on this bullshit?"

Zaeed rises menacingly. He checks the chamber of the Mattock, his words tight. "We're goddamned clear. Let's get going. We're about to lose all the advantage we had."

"Let's move," Shepard snarls. They go through the factory, taking out Blue Suns. There's a whole army of them. She wonders how pieces of shit like Vido can command the loyalty of so many men. Is it charisma? Is it ruthlessness? What makes someone follow a leader? What makes a leader? And how does a leader live with themself if they can use their followers as pawns? She dismisses the thoughts not wanting to form sympathy for the Blue Suns, preferring to shoot them instead. She's starting to have fun, the anger at Zaeed waning as battle lust takes over. Her happy haze is disrupted when they hear shouting overhead. They stop at the entry of the factory building. The sun is blinding, reducing the screaming man on the upper bridge to shadows.

"Help! We're trapped! We can't get to the gas valves to shut them off. The whole place is going to blow!"

"Too bad," Zaeed says, opening the door and striding inside. Shepard looks at him and back at the worker. She can't see his face. She can only see Zaeed's, marred by betrayal, marked by age and a fixation on revenge. "I don't give a damn about them," he says, anticipating her question. "Only took this job to get to Vido. You've seen how I fight, Shepard. Once Vido's taken care of I'll have a clear head. No distractions. I'll put your kill count to shame. Seems to me like something you could use against the Collectors. None of these poor sons-of-bitches will give you anything but thanks. And what can you do with thanks?"

Shepard nods, decided. "Agreed," she follows in after him, holstering the pistol and retrieving the shotgun. "Kasumi!" she's standing outside, looking up at the factory worker who's still shrieking for help. "Move your ass!" Kasumi glides in and moves ahead, noticeably angry but it doesn't matter.

It's remarkable how she can hear the shrill yells of the factory workers as they move through the factory. How's it possible? It shouldn't be possible. Is she imagining it? Hallucinating it? A fresh start. This was meant to be a fresh start. People have called her ruthless before. People don't get a title like the Butcher of Torfan without good cause. She sent a lot of good men and women to their deaths to prove a point. To make sure that the batarians _never_ thought of going after a human colony again. The ends justify the means. Only cowards don't agree.

The inside of the factory is cool but Shepard's sweating. Despite the ferocious activity of battle, she can't get warm. She hears them shrieking. Her trigger finger is tiring. She keeps glancing back but she can't see anything but the darkness. They all dive behind a hard collection of pipes, gunshots ringing all around them. She removes her helmet again to swab away the sweat, breathing anxiously.

"You all right, Shep?" Kasumi asks. "Getting shot at is never fun but you don't usually go pale."

"I'm fine," she says harshly. They left the screaming factory worker minutes ago. Was it minutes ago? Was it longer? Time loses meaning during firefights. She closes her eyes, licking the sweat from her upper lip. "You've gotta go back." She sees the question from the way Kasumi parts her lips. "I have to help Zaeed catch Vido. I need to do this." _I need to keep my word, somehow_. "But you need to get to those factory workers." A fresh start. A fresh start. Everyone deserves a fresh start. Maybe with that start comes difficult decisions. The fight will be harder without Kasumi but she doesn't need those factory workers' lives on her conscience. Not if something can be done about it.

Kasumi ducks her head as another shot pokes a hole through her hood. "Are you _sure_?"

"The area should be clear. Take care of the factory workers and rendezvous with me and Zaeed outside. That's an order, Kasumi. Hustle." Kasumi gives her a firm nod and Shepard can breathe again. She watches her cloak and run into the darkness. She puts the helmet on again and takes an unsteady breath. Satisfied with the air getting into her lungs she snaps forward to a group of Blue Suns with a charge, feeling invigorated again, alive. Her conscience is clear. Now the real fun begins.

* * *

The CLOSED sign has been hanging on the bar door for several hours. The floor is sticky and slick with dark puddles of blood. Soldiers lay contorted at awkward angles on the floor. Most are unrecognizable but there are a few who only have missing limbs, rivers of blood have drained out of them leaving their faces pale, eyes wide with fright.

The room is beginning to smell of piss and shit.

Grace is drenched in blood. The remaining soldier, the one who offered her an ultimatum earlier, is strapped to a chair, stripped of his armor. Grace shot out his shins so he didn't try to run while she tied him down with rope found in the backroom. She gathers it was intended for her. She's planted a stool in front of him. His face is white. He's disoriented but his yowling has stopped. Now he sweats, his arms fastened to the armrests of the chair.

He isn't bad. The CAT6 Academy taught her how to torture. Grace doesn't like it. It seems redundant in a way. It's perverse and ugly. Floyd and Volkova had a talent for it. The most hardened tend to break within an hour. It's been significantly longer for this man. Some of his teeth are at his feet, along with the needle nosed pliers Grace used to extract them. She made sure not to take the ones that would make him incomprehensible. She drove the pliers into his mouth and twisted emotionlessly, smiling at the pain he caused himself when he involuntarily jerked his legs.

She's stuffed his mouth with the bartender's bloody shoulder rag to keep him quiet and set up a few items on the table beside her. She returns the needle nosed pliers, adding it to a collection with a wrench, a hammer and a knife. His eyes are blue but the white in one of them is bloodshot and going red. It weeps constantly. Now and then his eyes dart to the dead soldiers. A scan of the emblem on the uniform reveals that it's Cerberus. Grace nearly forgot about them. Hope's only ever mentioned them in passing and the last time she was asked to do a pickup job for them she and her squad had been ambushed by the Collectors. It slipped her mind. Maybe she blocked it. It seems inexcusable, sloppy. Hope would be ashamed. _She's_ ashamed.

"Tell me what happened to Hope," she asks gently. She's happy to keep her voice steady. What she really wants is to snap his neck. The man rocks in the chair, thrashing futilely. She's been asking the question for hours. "Go on. Don't drag this out any longer than it needs to." He squeezes his eyes shut. Grace picks up the knife, and slides it under his nail. Another stifled scream. Blood pours over his hands and the knife, onto her hands. She draws out the knife and starts on another finger. He bites back his cry this time, his eyes seeming to roll back into his head. Once more she pulls the knife back. She takes his face lightly. "Stay with me," she says. His chest rises and falls rapidly. "Tell me what happened to Hope. You mentioned Kai Leng."

Grace did another search on him. There's hardly anything. An N7 operative who went bad. No one she knew from the Academy. A racist with a long criminal record, one who was dishonorably discharged from the Alliance. Nothing more. The soldier doesn't respond. "Look at me." He won't look at her. "Look at me while you have eyes to look at me." And still he doesn't look at her. She picks up the hammer and pushes it against the ball of his eye. He's getting desperate again. "Are you ready to talk?" He bows his head, making pathetic sounds. But he doesn't nod in agreement. She pushes the hammer into his eye slowly, the pressure mounting until it eventually erupts. White goo cradles the head of the hammer. Another shriek and then he's choking.

Grace watches him for a few moments before removing the bloody towel. He vomits all over himself. Grace looks at the hole where his clear blue eye used to be and she's afraid she'll vomit too. It would be easy to stop. This is awful. Despicable. But these men tried to kill Hope. Tried to kill her. She has a job to finish. The ends justify the means. When he's finished retching, Grace stuffs the towel back in his mouth. "You still have one eye left. Are you ready to talk or do you want to lose another one?" His eyebrow furrows, blood running down his face. "If I remove the towel will you talk?"

He doesn't respond. Grace gives him the benefit of the doubt. She removes the towel and he starts to scream for help. Grace quickly replaces the towel. She takes the knife and buries it into his thigh. She knows where all the major arteries and veins are. She knows how to miss so that he hurts and bleeds for a long time. She knows where to strike so he doesn't anticipate the pain he'll feel. She knows where to cut so it feels new and painful and fresh again.

"Tell me what happened to Hope." She slices one of his nails off before chopping off another finger altogether. More screaming. "I can do this all night," she tells him softly. "But you don't have to. Are you ready to talk?" She picks up his index finger and sets it next to her tools. "Or should I cut something else off?" she teases the blade along his crotch, sliding it up to his neck. "I can't decide." She draws the blade back down, "but I think I'm getting warmer. I have medi-gel. I can patch you up and start over from scratch for hours." More agonized crying, his giant eye blinks back at her. "If I take the towel away will you scream?" This time he shakes his head.

Grace waits. She removes the towel. For a minute he just pants. She lets him. She hates him but hates herself too. He's sad and small. She is too, maybe. "Kai Leng," he begins, his words wobbly. "Illusive Man. Cerberus." More panting and noises. She gets up and gets him a bottle of water. She uncaps it and takes a long swig, still fighting off the effects of whatever sedative they tried to give her. "In Bekenstein," he swallows, then hangs his head and cries.

Grace lifts his head. "Come on, drink." She brings the water bottle carefully to his lips. He takes a few desperate drinks but a lot of the water runs down bloody from his mouth. She keeps encouraging him, patiently holding the bottle until he's had another few gulps. "Keep talking."

"Hope wouldn't give you up," he says stiltedly. "Was running—for too long," he heaves for breath. "Mr. Illusive sent Kai Leng. Kai Leng's his right hand. Takes care of… takes care of the hard jobs. He killed her. In Bekenstein but that wasn't me. That wasn't me," he's crying again.

Rage floods Grace. It's primal and overpowering. It's the way she feels around Hope. It's that heat that strikes in the center of her. Hope is alive. They think she's dead but she's alive. She has to remind herself of that even as she observes the Cerberus agent who clearly thinks she's dead, who wanted Grace to join her. "Why were they after her?" but her voice is thick and she's beginning to lose her focus.

"She took something. She was with you. I don't know; I'm just a soldier. They don't tell me anything, they just—"

He stops when Grace stabs his shoulder with the knife. She covers his mouth and he moans into her hand. She doesn't like people who won't take responsibility for their actions. "Why are you after me? How do you know me? I'm going to remove my hand. Don't scream or I'll cut out your tongue."

"Rolstons," he spits out when she lets go. "From New Canton," he shakes, his words pitching up and down, sounding half-crazed. "You dropped them off. Grace. You're Grace. You look like her. You look like Shepard. Illusive Man wants you but I don't know why. That's all I know. That's all I know, please, please."

Those aren't many answers for the mess she's made but it's a start. Grace stands up and picks up one a comm-piece from one of the other soldiers. She carries it to the soldier who looks at her. The gaping hole in his face is disturbing. "Report back in. Tell them you sighted the wrong target. Go on." He looks at her skeptically. "Look at your men. Look at you. Do you think I'm bluffing? Call them."

She punches the button on the communicator for him. There's static and then a tinny voice comes over the small earpiece. The tortured agent clears his throat. "This is Geneva Unit. False positive. The target was a negative." Grace nods, impressed at how even his voice sounds. "Roger that." His head falls forward, crying into his chest. Grace crushes the communicator under her boot. "I did what you wanted. Let me go. I'll disappear. You won't hear from me again."

Grace touches the back of his neck and pulls him to her like an embrace. The butcher knife plummets into his stomach. He makes a sharp sound, as if he were submerged under water. His hot tears and sweat press to her shoulder. She feels ill. This is déjà vu. Is this Commander Shepard? Or is this who she is? Who Hope made her to be? Maybe she's only practical. She can't allow someone who celebrates Hope's death to live. She can't risk them going after her again. Hope would think it was sentimental. Maybe this is her way of being romantic.

"I won't hear from you again," Grace agrees. "I'll send Kai Leng to keep you company, you son-of-a-bitch." She yanks the blade up sadistically, his stomach and chest coming open like a zipper.

* * *

The factory is a landmine. Each step they take is rife with danger as the factory continues to erupt. Flames burst through the floor and walls like hell beckoning. They leap over open gaps, quickly twisting to the side when the factory begins to collapse. Shepard anticipated having to fight for their lives not literally running for them.

Still, she and Zaeed make a good team. They both have a fondness for killing mercenaries. Zaeed keeps close to her, awed by the bloodbath she leaves in her wake. "You really are a butcher," he says, his eyes gleaming with approval.

"I haven't had this much fun since Torfan," she says as she jumps over a small barricade. Shepard isn't sure if she means it. She's always liked combat. There's nothing like it to make her feel alive. It's a gamble with life and death but she doesn't believe in luck. She believes in playing her cards right—cheating when necessary. All that matters is getting the job done, all that matters is the adrenaline pumping through her. She craves it more than she used to, needs it to make her calm.

They finish off the remainder of the Blue Suns, both swearing as a Heavy Mech seems to come from nowhere. They work at shaving away its shields, trying not to get blown up in the process as it shoots a barrage of missiles at them. The missiles bury into walls and the floor, metal screeching around them, fire springing from what the Heavy Mech destroys. The flames lick and reach for Shepard and Zaeed. She can still hear screaming. How can she still hear screaming? How long ago did she send Kasumi?

"Do you hear that Zaeed?" she shouts.

He ignores her, focusing on the Heavy Mech. It doesn't matter if she hears them. Zaeed doesn't give a damn. They spend the rest of the time outrunning the spray of gunfire, each finding cover and flanking the mech, pumping it full of bullets until the thing finally goes down. They sprint past it towards the exit and when the mech explodes, Shepard isn't at enough distance. Her shields shatter as she's blasted forward onto her hands and knees.

For a minute she can't hear anything but a ringing in her ears. The room spins. Zaeed stops to look back at her but she waves him forward. The helmet is cracked and she tears it off, chucking it to the side. She gets to her feet feeling disoriented and dizzy, rubbing her eyes until the shadows go away. She hurries after him, swearing inwardly at her sloppiness.

There's a shuttle outside with a dead pilot slumped over the controls. Vido's not so tough anymore. Shepard feels heat at her back. She doesn't know if the hardsuit made it. Vido's on his knees, crying and begging. Zaeed goes over, kicking him hard in the face until he topples to the ground. "Thought you'd get away, did you? You ran the Blue Suns into the ground, Vido, now it's time for you to join them."

Shepard smiles. "Want me to hold him down while _you_ blow his brains out?"

Zaeed returns the smile. "Thanks for the offer, Shepard, but I want him to burn," he discharges a heated slug into the pool of gasoline the idiot dragged himself to and they watch him flail and scream as he burns alive.

Shepard's riveted. His screams are the only ones she can hear now. Kasumi must have gotten to the factory workers. It's a relief. Vido's hardsuit is melting onto him. She hears a sizzling that isn't Vido's suit or skin and rips the chest piece away. Her suit is melting and hot. She wonders if the combined force of the Heavy Mech explosion along with the fried shields caused the anomaly. She throws the worthless piece to the ground in frustration.

The cool air on her skin is welcome and Shepard takes a deep breath. She isn't troubled by the thick plumes of smoke shooting from the factory. "Looks like he's dead," Shepard says but he isn't really, he's on the ground twitching, his arms in spasms. "And you thought I'd let him get away."

"Guess I was wrong about you. You're all right," he says with a laugh. Vido finally stops moving. What's left is a smoldering husk. Zaeed looks different, at ease. This is his fresh start. Shepard mentally congratulates herself on a job well done. "Let's get the girl and get out of here."

"Negative. I told her to get the factory workers and rendezvous at this point. We can't go back the way we came." Zaeed is indifferent to the news. Vido's dead. He's no longer in a hurry. "She's clever. She'll find us." Shepard folds her arms on the railing, taking a slow breath, happy the mission is over but unsatisfied. After such a chase she was expecting a gunfight. She was expecting something brutal. Instead she didn't lay a hand on Vido. The whole thing was a tease. She looks at Zaeed. For a man his age he's in exceptional shape, his arms are heavily muscled and his ass could give Jacob a run for his money. "Up for a celebration while we wait?"

He cocks an eyebrow but as soon as she touches his arm he's caught her meaning. He crushes her to him, his mouth bruising against hers. Shepard finds his belt, undoing it before jerking it free. Zaeed unbuckles the remaining latches to her hardsuit before taking a fistful of her hair to look at her. Shepard smiles. "Didn't think you played with boys, Shepard."

"I want what I want when I want it. Right now that's you. Are you going to complain?" She takes his hands snaking beneath her undershirt as a 'no'. His fingers are rough and callused, scratching along her breasts, rough but exactly what she's looking for. Their mouths are hot on each other's again and she shoves him to the ground, mounting him. They're both ready. She brings her hands to his neck, squeezing as she rides him. He grabs her wrists but she isn't sure if he wants to stop her or simply hold on.

Shepard wonders why Liara hasn't responded to her e-mails. Maybe she should bring her the Shadow Broker information. Maybe she should tell her to fuck off. She closes her eyes, fumbling, reaching for something that eventually manifests at some undetermined point in time. The orgasm shakes her, wakes her, makes her alert, gives her a sliver of satisfaction. But it isn't Liara. She's filled with a tired sort of regret for their situation. She waits for him to finish and then rolls off him. She dresses and considers thanking him like with Jack but doesn't. It would be crude. She should stop fucking her crew. But it helped. It helped the restlessness. Shepard smiles awkwardly at him and rubs her arms. It's starting to get cold.

After he dresses he returns to the railing. "The girl's taking her time," he says.

Shepard does a visual scan of the perimeter but can't find her. "Yeah."

* * *

The quarian and the turian have been talking in the battery for hours. Dinner is slop but nobody complains. The air is thick and heavy. Commander Shepard went into a debriefing in Miranda's office not long after returning with Zaeed and exited shortly, taking quick, long strides to the elevator and punching the button.

It isn't long before Kelly Chambers arrives, datapad in hand, a carefully arranged expression of concern on her face. Gardner notices spice from the ramen packet earlier and sweeps it into his hand from the counter, dumping it into the trash, washing his hands of it.

"I am taking the opportunity to talk to _all_ crew members about what has happened," she tells him in a slow, lulling way. "It may not always be easy but talking can be cathartic, healing." He makes a face at her and she moves around the counter to stand closer to him. Gardner can't figure if she's coming on to him or only wants to flex the psychology degree.

"Go talk to Shepard," he dries his hands on the towel hanging off the stove. "She was nice but I'm not going to boohoo about it." He shrugs.

Kelly touches his shoulder, her fingers grasping gently. "Feelings of denial are normal. I'll be around if you change your mind."

She slips away and none too soon. Had she held his shoulder longer he would have become nervous from either the touch of a woman or a creepy, crawly feeling of not knowing what it was that she _wanted_. He wipes the kitchen down for the third time in an hour before heading to the closet they call a pantry. The door slides shut behind him and he moves around the small crates of paste and beans to find the QEC communicator.

It's portable, battery-operated, and paired up with a unit somewhere on Earth, where a router forwards the information to Rasa. Each usage drains the battery, and it takes a week to recharge, imperceptibly siphoning power from the food stasis units. Smuggling it aboard had been nerve-wracking, but Rasa had assured him it was necessary. It was why she had chosen him. Anytime he uses it he nearly pisses his pants but this seems like as good a time as any. The ship is in chaos. The mood is grim. No one has an appetite which means no one is going to try to ransack his collection. He types the note out quickly.

_Vido Santiago and Kasumi Goto are dead on Zorya. Will update later with progress._

Fingers shaking he stashes the QEC communicator behind the canned beans, outdated by thirty years or so. He runs his sweaty palms over his bald head, takes a breath and exits the pantry. Maybe he shouldn't have used her ramen. The thought is so stupid that he nearly chuckles. He quickly acclimates himself to the mood, his face somber. The last thing he needs to do is get someone's attention. Getting compromised by the Normandy crew is not half so terrifying as earning Rasa's anger.

* * *

Hope is hunched over on the couch as she reads the words. She reads them again to make sure there was no mistake and closes the laptop.

Cold rage has settled into her along with another distant, empty feeling. She tells herself they were never friends. They knew each other. They worked together. Hope created a dossier for Kasumi Goto because her talents should have been a boon to Commander Shepard.

Shepard is a bigger disaster than Hope thought. Before she lost her way she was sacrificing human lives for aliens. Now she isn't competent enough to lead an exemplary team through a routine mission. Cerberus wanted the best and Hope drafted dossiers for the best. The Collectors are a threat to humanity. Shepard never got anywhere on her own and Kasumi was looking for someone to help her with the graybox.

Hope realizes Kasumi will never get the graybox now. She should have killed Hock on Bekenstein. How many more will Shepard go through? How many more will she lose? What will it mean for humanity? What will it mean for the war against the Reapers? She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth.

She doesn't recognize the shadowed figure that enters. Grace is a bloodied ghoul when she steps into the light. Hope stands. There's so much blood. Her throat is dry. She can't move. Grace comes to her. The hoodie is wet with blood but her face is caked in it, her pants and her boots, her hands look like they were dipped in red mud that is only partially dried over.

Grace cocks her head. "Are you all right?"

Her voice is soft. A ripple passes through Hope, rousing her somewhat from her fugue. "What happened?" she can barely hear herself. She can smell the blood on her. Even butchers don't get quantities of blood like that on them. Hope isn't sure if she's dismayed, awed or blank. Mostly the last. The future of the galaxy is dire if Shepard's actions today are any indication. A small current of what may be fear punctures into her sharply. She bites her lip to not draw breath.

"Cerberus. I took care of it." Grace brushes the hair back from her face. The contact is calming despite the alarm that seems so far away. Grace lifts Hope's chin, leaving a red mark on her face. Grace's eyes are flint. Determined. Reassuring. "I know who hurt you. I won't let them hurt you again."

Hope says nothing. Her bottom lip quivers and then stills, eyes glazing over. She tells herself she's angry. She's angry at Shepard for her incompetence. She's angry at Kasumi for letting herself be killed. She's angry at Miranda for not controlling Shepard. She's angry at herself for too many reasons. Her fingers grasp tenuously at Grace's hoodie. As if prompted, Grace slides her arms around her waist, draws her close.

Hope closes her eyes and rests against her shoulder. She smells filthy. She smells like a murderer. It is oddly comforting. "Commander Shepard isn't fit," she says quietly, battling the shakiness that threatens to enter her voice. "Letting her live endangers everyone," she clutches Grace more tightly. Grace's fingers stroke her hair. She wonders what Grace did to get into the state she's in. No doubt it required some finesse and skill, violence. "You'll have to kill her."

She waits for Grace to tense. She waits for her protest but Grace's chest keeps rising and falling calmly as it did before. She doesn't know how long passes with Grace's fingers threading through her hair. She's nearly falling asleep when Grace brings her lips to her ear, hovering and warm in a way that makes her drowsy and hyperaware in one. "Okay."


	12. Remains

A/N: Thanks for all the massive encouragement from everyone in terms of reviews and follows. And for those of you (Caracal22, OriginalAlcy and Allusive Man particularly) who have told me to 'stfu and write' regardless of comic book continuity.

* * *

There are no fish. The aquarium water is a dull blue, lit sadly by a fluorescent light. The stand for ship models is empty. The only decoration is a framed picture of Liara T'Soni on the desk. Kelly Chambers descends three steps to the main area of Shepard's cabin. The Commander sits on the bed, head in her hands.

Kelly's instinct is to go to Shepard, soothe her pain in some way. She is under strict orders from Miranda Lawson to not engage in any sort of fraternization with the Commander. Kelly could argue that a little fraternization might benefit Cerberus—but knows that the XO isn't aware of everything that happens on the Normandy SR-2. The Illusive Man would prefer to keep it that way.

Commander Shepard summoned _her_. Kasumi died on Zorya days ago. Kelly offered an ear, should she need it but had not expected Shepard to take her up on the offer. "Is this a good time?" Kelly asks. She keeps some distance between them. "I could come back later if you'd be more comfortable."

Minutes pass with no response. Kelly watches the numbers on the clock change. She turns to leave and has her wrist snatched tightly. Shepard's hand is warm and clammy. Kelly glances at her. Shepard lets go. "Give me the sitrep." Kelly doesn't know what she refers to and is momentarily anxious. "Morale."

"Morale is…shaky," she says cautiously. Shepard walks around her slowly and Kelly listens to her footsteps as she tries to paint an accurate but not bleak picture. "Grunt, Thane and Zaeed appear unfazed though Thane is regretful and has said he will pray for her. Garrus is busier than ever calibrating. He wouldn't speak to me. Jacob is upset." Shepard frowns. "Does that bother you?"

"It doesn't."

Kelly watches her closely. Her voice is sure but her eyes are far away. "Cerberus obtained footage of the factory. It was completely destroyed. No one escaped alive."

"I didn't call you up here to tell me what I already know."

"No, of course," Kelly stumbles. Shepard, who was close, pulls away again to circle her. "Jack 'doesn't care'. Samara told me to return later, she was 'reflecting on the Code'. Miranda Lawson has denied all offers to talk. Tali'Zorah is unhappy. She didn't say it but her tone and body language…" Shepard stops, her back straightening, eyes narrowing on her. "Both she and Jacob share the opinion that Kasumi and the factory workers died needlessly for petty revenge." Kelly wonders if Shepard knows the way her chin dips slightly in thought. "I don't think you could have done more. You did all you could."

"You really believe all that shit you spout or are you trying to reassure me?" Shepard rubs the back of her neck and sits on the couch. There's a beat. "It was a bad call. I've been making a lot of those lately." There's a tired, defeated smile in her voice.

Kelly thinks to the bold woman who took her on the bed not minutes after her first initial visit. Kelly had been excited. She thought maybe there could be more. Shepard disagreed. Kelly doubts Shepard remembers it happened. It takes a certain pathology to create that kind of individual. "How are you, Commander?"

"I'm great. Just look at me." Shepard looks at her and smiles. It's enough to fluster most individuals. She is scar free and beautiful. Her eyes are luminescent. Kelly is still. The Commander may be in denial or she's simply been through a long enough military career that a loss of life is expected. She has lost Ashley Williams and Urdnot Wrex. She came through those okay. Then again, she died not long after they did. Kelly cautiously takes a seat next to her. Shepard follows her movements, stares. "Are you trying to determine whether I'm fit for duty? Soon as we're done here you'll run to Miranda or the Illusive Man, won't you?" Her tone and look is playful but Kelly doesn't doubt for a second she means her words.

"No," she says defensively. She'll only run to one. "I wouldn't." The lie comes easily to her. She was selected by the Illusive Man himself. She knows what's at stake and how important it is that the mission succeeds. The rest of the crew can think she's a coffee girl. She knows her value. "I care about you, Commander. If you want to talk I'm always happy to listen. Even off the record." She smiles nervously. Shepard continues to look at her. "I can't force you to. No one can force you into anything."

There's another long silence where Shepard stares at her. Kelly's unsettled, thinking back to the labs she worked in with particularly ill patients. She remembers how they stared blankly for so long. Sometimes nothing happened. Other times they made a move, a lunge for her. Both were…unpleasant.

"I was better than this before. Everything feels… out of control," her voice is husky and raw for a moment. As if she were crying or near tears but her eyes are dry, her face emotionless. Her fingers skim along Kelly's hair, along her cheeks. Kelly holds her breath. Then Shepard winces and stands, touching her forehead.

Kelly quickly rises to her feet. "I appreciate your confidence." And though she must immediately betray it, some small part of her would like to think the confidence was bestowed because of her particular approach.

Shepard smiles. There's something light in her eyes, some thought that's going unvoiced, something Kelly doesn't want to hear. Kelly decides not to press the issue. Some part of her is disappointed that Shepard didn't attempt sexual advances for both personal and professional reasons. As she's near the door, she stops. "You should get some fish." But Kelly thinks she only says it for her own state of mind and not Shepard's.

* * *

They left Therum almost immediately, moving to a more temperate location. Grace can't recall if she physically dragged Hope to the shuttle or held her hand. She's aware that Hope will remember it in a different way than she does.

The new safehouse is better though Grace has long grown tired of the constant moving. Leaving Therum so quickly filled her with a touch of regret. Truthfully she'd been curious about visiting the area where she—where Shepard met Liara T'Soni. Hope explained that there was no point in seeing ruins and was irritated when Grace countered that it was what they had done many times over.

Hope has been quiet and introspective, not wanting to talk, barely responding to her touches. Grace takes the time to engross herself in Liara's papers. When Hope isn't present to judge her for it, she searches for pictures of the woman, going so far as to save one on her omni-tool. It's what Shepard would do. She has to play the part, whether she wants to or not. When Grace looks at the asari's picture, she tries not to think of how Liara's lips brushed against hers—how she hadn't hated it.

The picture she's found is of Liara in a lab, wearing a green and white uniform, a datapad in hand, a nervous smile on her lips. Grace realizes she's smiling and forces her face to go neutral. Liara looked different then. Younger, more trusting somehow. Not the severe if not… Grace blocks her mind from going there. It is admittedly difficult.

Liara T'Soni's papers are lengthy with barely contained enthusiasm for the subject matter. They go on at length over the technology left behind as well as detailed descriptions of the Protheans' beautiful architecture. Just thinking about the Protheans makes Grace's head hurt. It recalls the shrieking images in her mind from the Cipher. Liara's papers, at the very least, make the subject matter interesting. According to Liara, the Protheans were a benevolent race that favored diplomacy and peaceful interactions. Then something happened to them. The Reapers? Machine ships, Santos said. The image of some twisted massive bug thing comes to mind.

Hope's hand on her shoulder pulls her from…whatever it was. A memory? Something gained from a meld? She isn't sure anymore. Hope sets a hot cup of coffee beside her. Despite having been seated at the kitchen table to read over the papers, Grace hadn't noticed her come in.

"Engrossed, are we?" Hope asks.

Her tone is lighter than it has been in days. Even Grace's promise to kill Shepard hadn't been enough to lift Hope's spirits. That night Grace stepped into the shower to wash the blood away. It was too long before the water ran clear again. Hope stood at the shower door, watching her. Grace wasn't sure if some of Hope's confidence waned with the washing of the blood. It brought back hazy memories of what she first remembers of Hope. Showers. Embarrassing showers when she had to be hosed down. Hope took care of her. Watched over her. Why can't she remember anything before then? Does she have to? Overcome with fondness, Grace reached out, pulling her close and kissing her. Hope let her, lips soft and grazing as a butterfly's wings against hers, not seeming to mind that she was getting soaked.

Grace smiles grimly. "I'm reading the 'Prothean Expert's' papers." Though her tone is condescending she doesn't have anything immediately dismissive to say. "It doesn't help me clear up what was in the Cipher, though. Or what could have happened to the Protheans. Other than they were wiped out fifty-thousand years ago. Approximately." It's awfully specific and vague in one. "According to her papers, the Protheans were a united people. I can't imagine what war might have happened to wipe them out so completely."

"Don't let those papers put stars in your eyes about the Protheans," Hope sits to the side of her, taking a drink from the steaming hot coffee and not flinching. Grace has an experimental sip and burns her tongue. "They're a little…shall we say, naïve?" She begins to turn the computer and Grace quickly exits out of the small windows she had of Liara's pictures. Hope looks at her questioningly, looks at the screen with the paper on it and turns it back in Grace's direction.

"She's been studying them longer than we've been alive," Grace says. A small smirk touches Hope's lips. Grace feels as if she's being made fun of but has nothing to back up the suspicion. Her cheeks warm. "She's the _only_ Prothean expert." And suddenly her attempt to have been facetious earlier only makes her true feelings the more obvious. She frowns. "That must count for something."

"She is the lone voice on Protheans. All she has are romanticized ideals and dreams, studying a race that was extinguished before…" Hope shakes her head. "I can't even come up with an adequate comparison of how off the mark she may be. She may be a hundred and eight years old but that's nothing to the asari. She's barely out of her teenage years," she takes another drink of the scalding coffee. "But by all means, study up. I assume Shepard was moved by the same drivel."

"I'm not moved by it," Grace snaps lightly. She shuts the computer, annoyed. Hope smiles palely, as if having won an argument. Grace knows that there's room for error. Lots of room for error. It's nearly impossible to ascertain what the truth of a race or period in time was without a living, breathing being around to tell one about it, without records. All Liara T'Soni has are suppositions. But hers are better than most, she gathers. At the very least, Liara is trying to understand. All Grace knows is that the Protheans are dead, wiped out. "You're feeling better."

Hope taps a finger on the table. "I was able to intercept a message some time ago. I don't think Shepard's going to make a visit anytime soon so I'll expect you to go and see what you can scrounge up." She pushes the coordinates to Grace on a piece of paper.

Grace recognizes the location immediately. Dread fills her. She touches the paper hesitantly as if it were enough to burn her. She can't say she remembers a fire more like she _feels_ heat all over her. That same breathlessness in her lungs and then cold. She hadn't thought Hope would ask her to visit this place, to see the skeletal remains of the Normandy. "I'll go right away." She stands. Hope frowns and Grace finishes the coffee straight away, gulping down the burning liquid.

"I'm not ready."

"I'm going on my own." Her voice tells Hope the matter isn't up for discussion.

* * *

The search for Oriana is futile but Miranda can't abandon it. Her time, her loyalties belong solely to Cerberus. Her investigation must always wait for the very limited free time she has. She swallows the crippling disappointment when she turns up nothing.

The Illusive Man is questioning why Kasumi Goto is dead. When Miranda near heatedly responded that it was for the same reason that Oriana had gone missing: Shepard and the Illusive Man's incompetence, their unwillingness to face that not all was as it should be—the Illusive Man shifted the blame back to her. It is _her_ job to control Shepard, it is _her_ job to assist Shepard however possible. A severe, emotionless reprimand and warning, along with an exhalation of smoke and the flash of his peculiar eyes were all he gave Miranda before dismissing her.

Thus far Shepard's beat Jacob senseless, Oriana has been lost (Miranda reminds herself Oriana's life is not a particular asset to the mission—despite how her security would ease Miranda's mind) and Kasumi is dead. Shepard skulked into her office like a dog with its tail between its legs to report the news. Perhaps she was too shocked or stupid to realize their life signs are actively monitored on the Normandy. _What the bloody hell were you thinking, Shepard?_ Miranda demanded but Shepard had stared at a wall, her jaw clenched, eyes glossy.

That was nearly two weeks ago. Damn it. There's still so much to do. The Collectors continue to abduct human colonies. Shepard has been more peaceful recently, no crewmembers beaten into a coma, anyway and she's taken care to debrief with Miranda after missions. She ought to be satisfied but she is not. Perhaps living in the shadow of perfection has molded her to demand it from everybody else.

She wonders, absently, what happened to the batches of clones that were made. They were meant to be Shepard's personal chop shop. Maybe there's a brain with a control chip they could swap out. Her lips nearly curl at the snide thought but stills when Shepard walks in. She palms the doorway hesitantly and Miranda, who hadn't known she was pacing, stops. Miranda lifts her arms lightly, almost as if throwing them up in frustration. "Shepard."

"Is this a good time?"

"I can't recall the last time we've had one of those," she sits and nods at the chair in front of her. "I imagine you know that just as well as I do." Shepard enters uncertainly before sitting. They stare at one another. Shepard's usual contempt is missing but Miranda has trouble hiding her vexation. She has a drink from her glass of water and laces her fingers, squaring her shoulders and leaning forward. "I'm a busy woman. If you have something make it quick." She's got her work to do and some of Shepard's on top of it.

Luckily some of the video feeds have come back online. The irritating quarian didn't do it for her sake, she's sure—but Miranda's seen her spending time with Garrus in the battery. Maybe they're finally beginning to realize that Cerberus isn't the enemy—or at least, that they aren't helping matters any by sabotaging the ship they happen to be serving on.

"I want to see Liara," Shepard says. Miranda bites her tongue lightly, looks at her nails to not roll her eyes and then looks to Shepard again. "…I need to get my head on straight."

"Really, Shepard? What does 'getting your head on straight' usually mean? Heading to Illium takes time. Are you sure there isn't another crew member you could fraternize with?"

"Are you offering?" Shepard asks. There's no smile in the question. Her eyes are menacing. Miranda leans back in the chair and waits. "A while back you sent me some information on the Shadow Broker. I don't know why I've waited so long. I think… I didn't want Liara to see me the way I was." She sounds far away, as if she were reciting a message for some audio log instead of having a conversation. "I know we've got to buckle down," she rubs her forehead gently, "and I know I've made mistakes. I just need to make things right. I just…need to see some things through."

Miranda takes a breath and crosses one leg over another. Shepard stares at the corner of the desk. Is she embarrassed? Has she become sheepish? What thoughts is she lost in? The holographic representation of EDI pops up by Shepard. "The fish you've requisitioned are available in your cabin, Commander Shepard. Yeomen Kelly Chambers is preparing them as we speak."

"Not now, EDI," Miranda snaps. EDI disappears. Fish? She nearly loses her train of thought. "Well, Shepard, I can't imagine why you're here. This is your ship. You're in charge. You've made that abundantly clear. We set course where you like, when you like. Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm guessing taking on the Shadow Broker is no light business," Shepard says with a faint smile. Miranda returns it wryly. "I know it's dangerous. And I know I've… let some people down. I don't want to do that anymore. I'm setting course for Illium. And I want Garrus and you to come with me." She stands, setting her hands on the desk, meeting Miranda's gaze head on. "That's not a request."

* * *

Ah, Illium. Garrus looks around. Seems like he only ever gets to come out when Liara's involved. Normally he'd crack a joke about being Shepard's wingman but he knows when to press and when to step back. He frowns thoughtfully. Maybe he stepped back for too long. Now Miranda Lawson is around, humorless as ever, no doubt babysitting.

Lots of asari in Illium. Garrus can't say they've ever been his type though he's found the more flexible dancers to be…captivating. He would hazard Shepard is asarisexual (and hates that he even has to think of these things) what with Sha'ira, Liara and if the scuttlebutt holds true—Samara. Most species don't cross over to others but Shepard's different. He wonders how much of it has to do with some fetish or her fixation on Liara. Last time they were here he was worried and Shepard was so pissed off from whatever happened between she and Liara that Garrus learned to leave well enough alone.

Now they're traipsing through Illium and they're off to see her again. Shepard means business—she doesn't so much as bat an eye at the other asari. Maybe it's because everything on Illium is monitored. He thinks, absently, that this 'shore leave' will be enough time for Tali to finish re-establishing vid feeds. He's grateful but doesn't doubt that it'll lead to another debate with the quarian. Tali has a way of putting him through the ringer and honestly, he doesn't blame her.

Maybe he built up Shepard too much in his mind. Hell, he's made mistakes before. He trusted the wrong person and lost his entire squad to Sidonis. Shepard's been through a mess of trouble. Got blown up, got brought back and from the sound of it—got rejected by Liara T'Soni. Garrus never thought Shepard would be serious about anyone. He's seen men lose it before, drowning themselves in drink and women. It's a coping mechanism and Shepard isn't the kind to see a shrink. Kelly Chambers pops absently into his head. He wonders if she'll be doing more than feeding fish.

They arrive at Liara's office. The receptionist from before—Nyxeris, is missing. Shepard is sweating and pale. She takes a breath and smiles back at them anxiously. Miranda's brow furrows gently. "Give me a minute," she says and walks in, the doors shutting close with a finality behind her.

Garrus clears his throat. Miranda takes a breath, walks in a small circle. Her heels clack on the floor before she settles and rests against a wall, crossing her arms gingerly. Garrus wonders how tall she is without the boots. Normally he'd ask but Miranda isn't like the old Normandy crew and doubts she could stand up to any decent ribbing. He scratches his mandible and stares at the door to Liara's office.

He and Miranda have talked about Shepard before. He gave Miranda a hard time. Lately even doing calibrations isn't enough to stop him from sweating bullets. "So, the Shadow Broker," he says to Miranda. "Should be a walk in the park." He pretends he didn't see her roll her eyes. He clears his throat again. This isn't awkward in the slightest. He looks at the door again and hopes desperately that this isn't a conjugal visit.

* * *

Shepard isn't sure what she expected when she walked through the door. She often imagined Liara enthralled with her face reconstruction, unable to deny her any longer. Shepard constructed many similar, elaborate scenarios. They come to her while staring at her cabin ceiling in the middle of the night unable to sleep.

It's so hard to sleep.

In her most daring fantasies, Liara joins her of her own free will, without needing the Shadow Broker intel as bait. She loves her. She would be with her because Shepard asked. Liara would need only her.

Liara looks at her quizzically. "Are you all right…?" she takes a tentative step forward. Shepard's disappointed in the greeting. The last time she visited her face was coming apart, glowing unnaturally. Liara studies her as if she looks worse. Shepard curses herself for being so nervous, for building this up so much in her mind that it couldn't possibly meet expectations. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon."

Soon? Shepard wipes sweat from her brow. "It hasn't felt like 'soon' to me, Liara." Liara nods. To Shepard's chagrin, Liara retreats, going to the desk and touching it somewhat aimlessly. "You could have sent word. Email. Anything."

"You know why I haven't," she says lightly. Shepard scowls. This is all wrong. This is disappointing. A part of her wants to restore Liara's faith and give her the intel. Another part wants to exit the office and leave her to fend for herself. She was an idiot to believe that Liara felt the same way. She's in her maiden years. Who the hell knows how she's been passing her time? Shepard thinks about coming clean with her actions. She bites back the confession, terrified of Liara's indifference. "I see why others admire your determination. You won't give up until you get the answer you want. There's some charm in that," but she says it as if it were an afterthought.

Shepard moves closer. "How do you like my face?" Seeking approval has never been her style. If it were anyone else, she would laugh at them. Liara used to make her feel as if she were on top of the world. So why does she feel like dirt?

"It's as pleasant as usual, Jane." She ducks her chin thoughtfully. "I… have been thinking of our last meeting." Shepard straightens. "I shouldn't have kissed you. It was…unfair. I know I said that… but it doesn't absolve me of my wrongdoing." Shepard barely hears the words. Her heart plummets. She's dizzy and cold. She can't recall Liara saying anything like that but isn't able to focus long enough to think it through. She can think of nothing to say. Her mouth is dry. Liara pushes away from the desk. "Are you all right?" she asks again, more quietly this time.

Shepard flexes her fingers and turns abruptly from her, assaulted by vertigo and anger. "That kiss was the only thing I've been able to hold on to," she says hoarsely. "It's the only thing I've had." She's sweating more than ever. Maybe Chakwas should check her. She's not well.

Liara touches her arm and Shepard whirls violently to look at her. Liara is still. Her expression is unreadable. Is she afraid?

Shepard brings a hand to her face, tries to get a hold of her breathing, tries not to cry. How is this happening? How did she let things get this way? Shepard struggles for words, for anything that will take the hurt away. She could leave her. She could leave her to rot, let her waste her life chasing after the Shadow Broker. It isn't the same Liara anymore. Not really. Screw Liara and whatever friend the Shadow Broker has.

Liara's eyes settle on her. They're curious and worried. She's a little paler than usual. Her freckles stand out vividly against her skin. Liara breathes her name and Shepard swallows.

"Miranda and Garrus are here," Shepard says somewhat shakily. "We know where the Shadow Broker is. You can be finished with all of this. You can be finished with all of this, Liara," she takes her hands desperately, "and then you can come with me. Once this is done you can come with me, can't you?"

Liara's lips part and then close, her head turning. "I… can't make any promises." She pulls her hands carefully away. Shepard latches onto them again. "But… it's something to consider."

Shepard closes her eyes, relief washing over her. Everything will be all right. Everything will finally be all right.

* * *

Tela Vasir squeezes off three shots. They fire silently from the sniper rifle. Two to the heart, one to the head but Liara's prepared. The barrier is impressive, especially for a maiden. Guess Matriarch Benezia's little pureblood bitch learned a thing or two from her mother.

Tela smiles, impressed. She imagined it would be a simple hit but a little game of cat and mouse never killed anyone—except her target. It's too bad. Tela liked Benezia, looked up to her. But Benezia is gone now and the Shadow Broker wants Liara gone. The lives of the Council, the lives of the greater good outweighs killing off a nosy asari who doesn't know to leave well enough alone.

Rain falls heavily. She leaves the sniper rifle and picks up the skyline hook, positions it perfectly, letting it spring forward and imbed into a wall the next building over. It's a gap of nearly a hundred feet. It would make for a nasty fall. Tela secures the hook on her side before slapping the metallic hook onto the thick cord. She rappels over to the other building, looking at the black all around her, the colorful lights of buildings illuminating the skies. She keeps an eye out for Liara, ready to take her out the second she sets sights on her but sees nothing.

Tela rips open the roof door and makes her way down quickly to Liara's apartment. The building is monstrous and it takes her minutes to sprint down the stairs.

The apartment security has been disabled and she strolls in. The apartment is massive. Netting a place like this on Illium can't be cheap. She leaves the M-15 Vindicator on her back, opting for the Acolyte at her side. _Let's see you try to put a barrier up now._

The apartment is dark, things scattered. Tela spots the bullet casings on the floor by the window. She hears a noise and does a one-eighty, Acolyte primed but there's no one. Frowning she moves to the door but sees nothing to either side of her on the hallway. She quickly searches the rest of the apartment. She's gone.

She's got to give it to her. She's fast. Irritated, she holsters the Acolyte and calls in the Illium police. They're largely incompetent, more used to dealing with white-collar crime than any criminal investigation but they dutifully set up police tape and begin to search for clues.

She knows that Shepard is in league with Liara. Nothing she would have ever gotten a whiff of if it wasn't for the Shadow Broker. The Spectre arrives with Garrus Vakarian in tow and Miranda Lawson. Tela takes her in. Not bad for a human. Her eyes are like splinters of ice setting coolly over her.

Shepard, on the other hand, looks nearly distraught. "Shepard," Tela strides over, takes her hand firmly. "Tela Vasir." Shepard's hand is cold and clammy, despite the strong grip. "If you're looking for Liara T'Soni you're too late. Looks like someone made an assassination attempt. They should have known better than to think it'd be so easy."

"What do we know?" Shepard asks.

Tela goes through the routine. If the Shadow Broker is right about Shepard and T'Soni (he hasn't steered Tela wrong so far), then Shepard might be the key to tracking her. Tela watches her move around the apartment half desperate, half dazed. She stops at a display with broken N7 armor, touching a hand to the glass. Looks like the Shadow Broker was on the money.

"Well, this is a great start," Garrus remarks dryly, wiping rain from his crests and face. He goes to the window to study the bullet holes. "It's a good thing for all of us it was some amateur on the case and not Archangel."

Tela scowls at him. Miranda turns to her. "You're a Spectre for the Council aren't you? I wasn't aware Spectres spent a lot of time on Illium. Surely your efforts could be better placed elsewhere."

"Aren't you with Cerberus?" Tela asks. "Maybe I should launch an investigation as to why you're on Illium. Cerberus and aliens don't mix well, do they?" She smiles as Miranda's lips thin, eyebrows narrowing.

"I found something!" Shepard calls from upstairs, bringing down a framed photograph of some Prothean ruin. Soon they begin searching through Liara's apartment for every ugly item Liara thought to salvage and enshrine. Shepard looks pensive throughout, nodding at something Garrus says when he claps his hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

What a hot mess. Tela would have someone kill her before she let herself become so pathetic. At least, she tells herself, Shepard won't pose any threat if she decides to make trouble. Shepard finds a disc with a conversation between Sekat and Liara. She's headed to the Dracon Trade Center. The Shadow Broker wants them both eliminated. "Good work, Shepard," Tela tells her. Now she'll be able to take care of them both.

* * *

Liara practically leaps from the car and onto the terrace of the Dracon Trade Center. So, Tela Vasir is trying to kill her. Good. It means she's getting close to the Shadow Broker. The more men they send after her, the closer she is. Let the Shadow Broker send his forces after her. She'll tear them apart and save him for last.

Puddles of water splash as she runs past the mobs of people and into the building. Her lungs are on fire. This is it. Two years of hunting the Shadow Broker, two years of mourning Shepard are about to come to a close. She would have liked to find the Shadow Broker herself but it's fitting that Shepard brought her the intel.

In the end, she's always been there for her, no matter their…disagreements. She takes out the M-6 Carnifex from her side, sweeping it over her surroundings as she moves. All she sees are worried employees. They probably think her mad, soaked in rainwater, wearing a hardsuit and a lab coat, ready for a fight. If they're smart they'll stay out of her way. She can't risk losing the Shadow Broker's trail.

She pulls up Sekat's location on her omni-tool and is nearly to the elevators when the floor starts trembling. Instinct makes her raise a barrier at the last instant and it likely saves her life. A massive column snaps over the barrier and she's blasted back, slamming into the metallic foundation of an enclosed garden.

Liara gets to her feet just in time to see mercenaries begin to filter into the building. Normally she'd worry. Today she is vindicated. She is wrath personified. She gave up two years of her life for Shepard—as did Feron. If Shepard knew the truth… she doesn't know. His sacrifice will not be in vain. Perhaps she's foolish to hope that Feron lives but if Shepard can come back from that… hunk of tubes and flesh that she was then Feron can survive.

She makes her way up the building, finding alternate routes when she reaches collapsed areas, avoiding the flames that have sprung up from everywhere. The water sprinkling system isn't enough to douse the fire. Whoever is after her is surely after Sekat. She is merciless as she moves, freezing the Shadow Broker's agents with stasis before blowing their brains out. The woman Shepard knew would have flinched at that. Liara doesn't flinch anymore.

She is unaware of how much time passes when she reaches the floor to rendezvous with Sekat. All she knows is Shepard and her squad have beat her to the punch. And there's Tela Vasir in the midst of it all. Liara enters the room, the gun honed on Tela. Shepard doesn't question her for a moment, lifting the M-23 Eviscerator in Tela's direction the moment she sees Liara's target. Warm relief floods over Liara, the rain and water sprinkling system not enough to keep her cool. "Talk to me," Shepard says.

"She's working for the Shadow Broker," Liara says through gritted teeth. "She tried to take me out earlier," she spots Sekat's lifeless body slumped to the side. She narrows her eyes. "I'll make her wish she had."

"You're the bad shot?" Garrus asks, training his M-96 Mattock on Tela. "A Spectre! You should be embarrassed."

"Oh, screw this," Tela says. With a biotic pull she yanks the roofs down over their heads. Liara creates another barrier. It begins to crack as concrete hammers into it. Liara meets Shepard's eyes. She smiles reassuringly. Liara returns it. All of this chaos and the two of them are together. It's just like old times. Maybe they can be together again. Maybe.

Liara looks away. She can't get lost in eyes and smiles. She can't forget the things Shepard has done. She flings the collapsed materials at Tela but she's good—she dodges. An instant later Shepard's knocked Tela out the window.

The two of them go tumbling down, fighting in the process. Liara doesn't wait. She goes after them. When Tela kicks Shepard to the ground and makes a run for it, Liara doesn't stop, doesn't look back. It's had to be this way for two years. She can't stop now. She won't. Not even for Shepard.

* * *

Shepard is a marvel.

Miranda wonders if she made a mistake, if she misjudged her. Shepard may drive like a maniac but Tela Vasir is exceptional and Shepard is holding her own. Miranda has never battled a biotic Spectre before, a matron or matriarch even. Her biotic capabilities are _good_. The shockwaves Vasir sends in her direction are enough to tear through her shields as if they were nothing.

She throws herself behind cover when she can. While she and Liara scramble to keep their shields up, to get them recharging, Shepard is hurling herself at Vasir over and over again.

Shepard doesn't give Vasir any ground which gives Miranda and Liara the chance to focus their energies on dispensing with the Shadow Broker's soldiers. One by one, sometimes in clusters, they strip them of their shields, setting off biotic detonations, exchanging quick smiles as they whittle down the assailants.

When they're finished they turn back to Shepard whose face is bleeding and sweaty, her face the manifestation of vengeance. She's radiant. If Liara, breathless next to her, is any indication, she feels the same. It's impossible to get a shot in, Shepard and Vasir are engaged in a flat out brawl.

The restaurant goers outside of Hotel Azure have long since gone running for shelter. The ground is dotted with purple blood. It would be impossible to get in close without being blasted back. It isn't as if she's never fought a vanguard—but never like these two. Their grunts of exertion are the only thing that can be heard. The foundation is cracked, the ground torn open. Vasir fires off a shot from the Acolyte and Shepard's barrier is gone.

If she's afraid, she doesn't show it. Her omni-blade comes out and with a dodge and a swipe, Vasir's hand flies to the ground, Acolyte clenched tightly in hand. Shepard charges again, burying a knee in her gut and then slamming it into her face while she's hunched over. Vasir folds over backwards, collapsing to the ground.

Miranda and Liara run to them. "End of the line, Vasir," Shepard growls. Purple blood oozes out of Vasir's arm, her face bruised and swollen. "A Spectre working for the Shadow Broker. You're barely a step above Saren."

"Fuck you," Vasir spits, sliding back, trying to prop herself to a sitting. Shepard follows her movement with narrowed eyes. Vasir will live. She could live, Miranda knows but Shepard won't allow it. "I'm saving lives. As many as you! You're with a terrorist organization and you're judging me?" she coughs. Liara looks at her curiously, her features softening somewhat but not enough to forgive her, to spare her. "You're not better than me."

Shepard stoops beside her. "I'm not." She says softly. "It's too bad, Vasir. You're good. We could have worked together. I'm not better than you. Chances are I've done things a whole hell of a lot worse than you have. Yeah, I work for Cerberus. They brought me back. I owe them. Some of them aren't even all that bad. I'd say it's about on par with working for the Shadow Broker. You do what you need to do to get things _done_. I respect that. You hadn't come after Liara, I could let it go. You could have disappeared. But you did. You _fucked_ yourself." The omni-blade is out again and before Miranda can blink it's buried in Vasir's stomach.

Vasir emits a small sound as Shepard drags the blade up, blood spilling over her hands, over her armor. Liara's face softens before her eyes go hard. She turns away from the sight. A shame, Miranda thinks. Shepard's face is at ease. Peaceful.

* * *

Shepard gives her the tour. She is somewhat nervous throughout, which Liara doesn't understand. At times she trips over her words. She breaks too often into those infrequent smiles Liara rarely saw before. The Normandy SR-2 has been upgraded greatly. The crewmembers are cheerful and friendly. Shepard tried to talk on Illium but Liara, so focused to get onto the Normandy and start the course for Hagalaz, refused to engage in the conversation.

Shepard was notably angry. Miranda kept her distance and she and Liara exchanged glances, trying to pretend the other was not there. The Normandy could not arrive soon enough as she and Shepard stood at a standstill in tense silence.

Shepard introduces her to the squad. Some, like Miranda, she's met before. Others she hasn't. But as Shepard makes introductions, Liara puts faces to names. There's Kelly. Samara. Jack. Liara wonders if Shepard had been fucking the convict when she brought her the first time or only turned to her after the fact. She sent all those emails.

Liara isn't sure that she's angry. There's some of that. Mostly she's emptied of emotion, left hollow. For two years she has fought to be emotionless. She can't let the walls down now. The Shadow Broker is still out there. Feron remains imprisoned—if she's lucky.

She and Shepard had something of a rocky start. She made a fool of herself and Liara was never sure if Shepard was interested in Staff Lieutenant Alenko. There were many miscommunications along the way. Some of them her own, she can admit that. But Shepard is unconventional, unpredictable, impossible to read. The first time Shepard kissed her, Liara thought she'd imagined it. She worried it was only a game to the Commander who had a reputation for breaking hearts.

Shepard's words are wonderful. The emotion in her voice seems real. Yet actions speak louder. They tell Liara that her mourning may have been for nothing. Liara once again has to push the thoughts away. More introductions and reunions. Tali has grown quickly in two years. She has a different way of carrying herself. Donnelly and Daniels are like a bickering old couple. Liara hears them whispering to each other about her relationship to Shepard when they exit engineering. Daniels reminds Donnelly to mind his own damn business. Liara smiles but Shepard glares back at them.

They step into the elevator and Shepard slams a fist into the emergency brake as soon as they're between floors. She's trapped them. Liara stares at the numbers on the elevator panel. "You have got to look at me," Shepard says. Liara blinks and looks at her. There are flecks of blood on her face from her earlier encounter with Vasir. She's pale and raw with emotion, her hazel eyes shifting to greener than usual. "We need to talk." Liara licks her lips. "We've got time until we get to Hagalaz. Come to my cabin. _Talk_ with me. Please."

Liara can't swallow the knot in her throat. She nods instead. Shepard hits the button on the panel and the elevator ascends again. Shepard waits until Liara steps out on the cabin floor to follow after her.

The cabin isn't where it used to be. It was where Miranda's office now is. Liara considers space specific memory. Everything's different now. She looks at the fish in the tank and back to Shepard. "It looks better than before." Her framed picture on the desk catches her attention. Liara's breath hitches. Guilt bubbles inside of her. Has she been cruel to Shepard? Is it the reason she has turned to debauchery? "I know you don't agree with what I'm doing. Feron's important to me." Shepard grimaces. "I don't know how much Miranda has told you about… how… Cerberus got your body." Shepard arches her eyebrows in question. "It's a long story. I'll make it short. I was told by Feron that your body had been recovered. The Shadow Broker was looking to give it to the Collectors." Even voicing the plan aloud is enough to momentarily paralyze her. "I had…objections. But as you might understand, standing up to the Blue Suns and The Shadow Broker is no easy task. I wasn't then what I am now. When Miranda offered to help me recover your body… When they said they could bring you back, I couldn't say no." Her voice wilts, fading away. "I gave you to them. I gave you to Cerberus. I couldn't stand the thought of the last time I saw you being…" she thinks of the body in the pod. Unrecognizable. Just tissue with hints of a human form. Liara had fallen to the floor in tears during transport. She takes a slow, deep breath. She can't look at her.

"Liara… hey." She goes to her, palms her face. Her hand is warm now, solid. "It's all right. I was…pissed off before. Lost. But none of that matters anymore. I don't give a damn that you gave me to Cerberus. They brought me back. _You_ brought me back. And if I'm alive another day to see you, to be with you… anything's worth that. Anything."

Liara's eyes sting. She curls her fingers around Shepard's hand, drawing it away from her face. She holds it briefly before releasing it. She faces the photograph Shepard has framed of her. "I know what you've been doing. I know about Kelly and Samara. I know about Jack. Goddess knows who else there is." Her voice is detached. The air is still. "You say such… tender things. But there's no softness to you. All you have are words. Empty words. I was naïve before. I believed you, Jane." She looks at her. Shepard ducks her head shamefully, her cheeks red. She reaches for her. Liara pulls away. "I look at you and… sometimes it's easy. And sometimes, when I let myself think of it, I can't stand the sight of you."

Shepard's fingers curl and uncurl. Her lower lip juts out slightly in a pout, perhaps. It trembles. Shepard swallows. "I thought we weren't going to talk about any of this until after Hagalaz," she says lightly but there is an unsteadiness to her voice. Liara watches her coldly. "I have been so angry at you," she starts. Liara waits. "I should be fucking _furious_. _Cerberus_?" She shakes her head. "I was dead. When I went to you it was as if it didn't even matter. _I_ didn't even matter." Liara won't argue with her. How Shepard could believe that she doesn't care is beyond her. Shepard stops. Shrugs. "It doesn't matter. None of it matters." She paces. Wipes her face with her hand. "I admit it. I've screwed around."

"You didn't admit anything until I told you I knew," Liara retorts. "Would you have said anything? Would you?" she demands.

Shepard shakes her head, looking more lost by the second. "I don't know." There's a beat. "I wanted to. I wanted to hurt you." Liara laughs bitterly. "But I thought… if you knew… if you knew and it didn't bother you it would kill me." She takes Liara's wrist. "If you only knew what you reduce me to." Liara yanks her arm but can't get it loose. "If you only knew how you destroy me." Liara gives another solid yank of her arm. She doesn't get it free until Shepard lets her go.

"I don't want to talk about this now," Liara says. "We've already said too much. I will not let you emotionally compromise me before we meet the Shadow Broker. I know how you pushed and teased me before. You're not mine anymore, Commander. And I'm not yours. Whatever you think there's left to talk about can wait." The rank and words strike. Shepard looks away from her.

Liara fills with pride and regret. In the end, is she any better than Shepard?

* * *

Alchera makes Noveria seem warm. The shuttle door groans to an open. Grace immediately numbs from the cold. She puts her helmet on and steps outside. Snow spirals down lazily. Everything is a pale blue and white color. Overhead she spots three moons. She mentally recalls their names: Uluru, Wandjina and Baiame, size and distance, surface temperatures before forcing herself to move on.

Frost crunches beneath her boots. The space is wide and open. The sky is pulsing with stars. There is wreckage everywhere. Grace hears screaming ringing through her mind. Fire. Stars. She looks up. There are stars but no ball of fire. She breathes unsteadily. The air is thin. Her breathing sounds far away.

There's a M35 Mako. It's relatively intact. Grace goes to it, hating the piece of shit on principle. Impossible to control, always flipping itself around. Wrex thought it was a riot. _Who's Wrex?_ Grace remembers moments later. The dead krogan. He isn't here. He died on Virmire.

What's left here is another lifetime. It's a hell of a crash. How did Shepard escape? Were the rumors of her death greatly exaggerated? Did she do something to trick them all into thinking she had expired? Grace rethinks the word. She doesn't like 'expired'. It implies that it's only a certain amount of time before something goes bad and needs to be disposed of. According to Hope, that's Jane Shepard. The wind whips frost around. _Jesus fuck it's cold._ Negative thirty-two Celsius. She takes a stab at what the real-feel is with wind chill and moves through the landscape contemplating any possible assassination of Jane Shepard. She told Hope she would because it seemed important to her mental wellbeing.

Striking her down because Hope had a bad day doesn't seem fair. Or valid. Maybe Hope was in a mood. And because of it asked her to assassinate Commander Jane Shepard. Grace smiles sardonically thinking of it. And while she's on the subject of unlikely hypotheses she may as well venture that Hope will change their plans and suggest they live the rest of their days as pacifists.

Grace knows she's adept at killing. And she can acknowledge that she's a strong biotic. But killing Commander Shepard? There's no real reason to do it outside of Hope's request. She doesn't want her life. Yet here she is freezing her ass off for the sake of the Shepard Nostalgia Tour. Did Liara watch the Normandy go down? Did her heart break? Did she feel the air pulled out of her lungs as surely as it was pulled out of hers? Shepard's, she corrects.

Grace frowns. She doesn't pay attention to the burning in her lungs. It must be psychosomatic. It's speculation. Shepard's death was a rumor. Even the rumors don't say what happened, though the remains of the Normandy give some indication. What happened to the ship? She finds the bridge, the ceiling of the ship ripped open. Her body tenses painfully. For what feels like eternity she's dizzy and weak. She puts a hand to one of the sharp metal edges that made up the backbone of the infrastructure. Eventually it passes and she moves up to the pilot's chair. She stays there for a long time resentful and melancholy before leaving.

She walks around, spotting uniformed corpses, sad, cold and alone. She stoops by one to touch his service tags. _Pressly, Charles._ No time to get to an escape pod. She wonders if he died on impact. There's a datapad next to him and she reaches tentatively for it. His eyes and mouth are open as if midscream. He's so iced over Grace can't close his eyes. She touches his shoulder gingerly, some affection for the stranger stirring within.

She never boarded the Normandy but the crash site fills her with a profound sadness. She can imagine what it might look like. Dark corridors, curved stairs. A mass effect core, maybe. There are no records or photographs available of the inside of the Normandy. Grace doesn't anticipate she'll see the inside of it anytime soon, if ever.

She turns her attention to the datapad, hard to navigate with her gloved hands. The data's mostly corrupt. Pressly questions Shepard's fondness for aliens. He doesn't trust them. Grace felt much the same in the beginning but has of late discovered that aliens are no more unethical or morally bankrupt than humans. She doesn't buy that Hope believes any of it either. Hope's too smart to think that way. The truth is that facts aren't on the side of xenophobes.

Grace hears a noise behind her and whips around, Paladin in hand. How did someone sneak up on her? This place is unsettling. She wonders if she should drop the datapad or chuck it at the soldier to distract him before blowing him away.

"Shepard?" It's a male voice. Grace frowns. She drops the datapad and approaches, hearing her breath sound too hollow in her ears, fogging her helmet. Her helmet fogged before. She floated in the stars. The jarring, non-memory memory leaves her momentarily breathless even as she approaches the man in the black hardsuit. "It's me," he lifts his arms, "Kaidan."

"Kaidan?" she keeps the pistol up. She remembers his voice before she remembers his face. It must be in what Shiala and Sha'ira gave her.

"Hey, look. Lower the gun all right? I'm not here to make any trouble."

Grace spots a Phalanx at his side. Kaidan Alenko. A biotic. It's not the gun she has to worry about. The records indicate he's an exceptional biotic, enough to give matriarchs a run for their money. Grace doesn't want any trouble either. She does a visual search of the parameter for what she can use if he decides he does want to make trouble. When she's found what would make suitable cover, what would be enough to cut him in half she holsters the gun. "What are you doing here?" she asks, attempting to make her voice casual.

"I got a tip from official channels. I'm guessing I'm here for the same reason you are," he takes a breath, shaking his head at the mess of metal, crates and debris scattered throughout the area. "Ah, man." She looks at him. It's hard to gauge his emotions when he's helmeted though she'd question his sanity if he decided to remove his helmet. Frostbite would settle in minutes. "We had a lot of good times on her," he says with a nod to a giant flank of the ship, NORMANDY emblazoned on the side. "Being here like this… brings me back."

"Yeah," she says, hoping it's enough of a contribution to the conversation. Still, some part of her understands his sentiment. She'll be damned if she knows how. Kaidan stoops at Pressly's body, shaking his head, muttering about it being a 'damn shame' before rising. Weapons lockers are littered haphazardly in the snow. They stare at them for too long. "It's uh—it's been a while." Who the hell knows when the last time Shepard and Kaidan Alenko met? On the Normandy? Afterward?

"Shepard…" there's a beat. "Uh—mind talking in the shuttle? Kind of cold out here." Grace nods slowly and they make their way back to where the UT-47 Kodiak he arrived in is stationed. As soon as the shuttle door closes he removes his helmet, sweating despite the cold. He's handsome. An arch of his thick eyebrow, suspicion playing on his features and Grace tentatively removes her helmet. He looks at her for a long time. "You look better than last time I saw you."

"Wish I could say the same."

He laughs. "I can't remember the last time we laughed together. Look." He considers. "About Horizon." Horizon. Grace recalls spending some time in a safehouse there. Does he know about that? He can't. Her identity—whatever it is—can't have been compromised yet. "I've…been going over what happened. You know—I've… composed a few emails. I just couldn't send them." He closes his eyes, leaning back into the chair. There's a picture of the Normandy tacked beside the pilot's seat. Right beside it is a picture of her—Shepard—and Kaidan, Ashley Williams. Shepard's arms are wrapped around them, smiling brightly. She tries not to stare. "Conversations like these are better had face to face. I owe you that much…" he looks at her. Grace waits. "I said some things I shouldn't have. It's just—after everything we'd been through together… Sovereign… Ash… we _saw_ those labs. We _saw_ what Cerberus did. I—I just can't believe you're working with them—"

_Cerberus_? "Kaidan, I'm not—" she catches herself, swallows the words. For all intents and purposes, Kaidan believes that she's Jane Shepard. A wrong word could undo everything. She shuts her mouth with difficulty.

"I know what you said. Maybe you think they've changed, Shepard but I don't. If they're working for you—fine. But how long do you think that'll last?" He asks. Grace furrows her eyebrows. He takes it as encouragement, as if she's finally understanding him. "They brought you back." Back from where, Grace wonders? "You feel like you owe them, agh." He scratches his head. "I'm saying the exact same thing. I just want you to be _careful_." Kaidan reaches across and takes her hand. Grace looks down at it and then at him. Embarrassed, he pulls it away. "Tali sent me an email a while back? Said your plan was to load up the Cerberus cruiser with bombs and not look back."

Grace smiles thinly. "That's the plan."

"Sounds like you." He nods, smiling wryly at her. "Though I'd hate to see her go down again. Ah. I'm just being sentimental. It may have some improvements and look just like the old Normandy but it never will be. We had a lot of good memories on that ship. It can't just be replaced." Grace frowns gently. "Anyway. That's what I wanted to say. We can get back out there." With a small hiss the shuttle door comes open. The Alliance surely has access to better vehicles. His shuttle opens with ease instead of the groaning and screeching of the shuttle she touched down in. "Where'd you leave Cerberus?" he asks, slamming the door shut behind him.

_In pieces on Therum_. She bites her tongue. Shepard's working for Cerberus? Shepard's working for Cerberus. Did Hope know? Why not tell her? The revelation fills her with so much anger she doesn't notice the cold anymore. She wanted a reason to take down Shepard. Now she has one. Did Shepard order the hit on Hope? Did she send Kai Leng after her? But why? Does she know Hope's plan? Does she know Hope intends for Grace to replace her? "I needed a break from those assholes for a while," she says. "They shouldn't be here. Not this place. It's…personal." She's surprised she means the words.

Kaidan nods, the answer suitable. The talk is nerve-wracking but not so much as her talk with Liara. It's strange. They've spoken only once but it feels like many times that. "Anderson wanted me to stop by. I heard you got this intel months ago? Guess we all thought you weren't making time for the Alliance these days." Grace doesn't have any answer for him that would be authentic. She doesn't know what he's talking about. She remains silent. "We lost a lot of good men and women. At least with this, we can give some closure to their families."

"It's the least we can do."

"I may not like who you're working with but I know how busy you are. I'll talk with Anderson and Hackett. Let them know what we found here."

She thanks him. She'd have no idea how to do those things on her own. They keep walking, Kaidan identifying bodies, sometimes only able to do so by their tags. Some bodies are too badly burned to recognize. They collect tags until they've found everyone they can.

They exchange paltry parting words, shaking hands firmly and walking in opposite directions. She's nearly to the shuttle when he calls out to her. "Hey, Shepard. Don't forget this." He chucks the object and she catches it.

An N7 helmet. Still intact, somehow. _Her_ helmet. _Shepard's helmet_. A panicked restlessness fills her again. She can't speak so she raises a hand, a poor indication of her 'gratitude'. She enters the shuttle and shuts the door behind her, whipping her helmet off and taking gasping breaths of air. It's not real. Whatever panic she's feeling it isn't real. It's psychosomatic. It's all psychosomatic. She sits for a long time, wheezing for air, fighting the resentful tears burning behind her eyelids. When she's finally able to breathe she looks at Shepard's N7 helmet sitting beside her. She lifts it carefully. Moments later she calmly pulls it over her head.


	13. The Shadow Broker

Miranda's massaging her neck when Jacob enters the office. Jacob isn't surprised when she immediately ceases the motion, folding her arms on the desk and smiling up at him instead. Anyone would be dazzled by the smile, by her perfection—but Jacob knows her. He sees when she's putting on a show. He sees the hint of dark circles under her eyes. He's never seen her look so tired.

"Heard you're headed to Hagalaz," he places a cup of coffee, resting on a saucer, in front of her. Her smile is puzzled as her eyes wander back to him. "That's from my personal supply. Decided to stock up when we hit the Citadel a few weeks back. Gardner's stuff isn't fit for human consumption."

"Considerate as always," Miranda says with a grateful nod in his direction. Her fingers smooth over the saucer. Jacob sits across from her without being invited. A small line creases her brow and then it's gone. Miranda doesn't need coffee. She can get by on less sleep than any other human. The result of her genetic tailoring. Some time ago she told him about her penchant for drinking the substance, born in some attempt of a teenage rebellion. "Thank you."

"How's the hunt for the Shadow Broker?"

"Oh, you know. The usual hordes trying to kill us, a particularly brutal asari Spectre, our dear Commander Shepard and Liara T'Soni. She's toughened up a bit since we last crossed paths with her. You missed some of Garrus' rapier wit. You're lucky to stay onboard."

"Lucky, yeah," he shakes his head. "You know I don't like to sit on my ass."

"No. You've always been a man of action."

A small silence passes. Miranda drinks delicately. A man of action. One that wasn't enough. It was his decision to end things between them. He knows Miranda isn't perfect. Often times she's too critical, overlooking small strides made in projects, during missions. She keeps her heart sealed under lock and key. She was kind but never open. Jacob used to wonder whether she might with a different man or if the fault lay in his simplicity. Maybe she needed more, more of a challenge, a more patient man who was willing to wait things out. "How's Shepard?"

"Not bad," she says, a bit of surprise in her words. "She's extremely capable, on the battlefield anyway."

"We knew chasing down Collectors wasn't going to be easy. Kasumi was a mistake but she's gotten us this far. Freedom's Progress, Horizon, the Collector ship—trap. None of that was easy. I don't think we could have done it without her."

"I wasn't expecting you to be an advocate for her. You make fair points."

Miranda lived in a lab for two years, breathing, living and sleeping Shepard. The project was everything. She never made mention of the enormity that was at stake and aside from the rare cutting comment about Wilson, she didn't complain. It wasn't only her reputation that was at stake with Project Lazarus—it was the survivability of the human race. Jacob has witnessed her react to small shifts in well-established plans, things that aren't mistakes, that can't be predicted, and turn to ice as she efficiently came up with alternate scenarios. Jacob can't imagine the pressure she's under from the Illusive Man but mostly herself. If she suspects anything is off about Shepard, the strain she's under must be intense. But she doesn't complain. Never to him.

"Not everyone can live up to your standards of perfection." Jacob won't take the words back, even as she turns the handle of the cup of coffee in the opposite direction and says nothing. "Not even you." His brow furrows. "I know things have been tough." He's never seen Miranda distraught. He doubts he ever will. The Oriana situation is as close as it gets. She didn't come to him about it and he won't bring it up now. "But you can handle anything that gets thrown your way. Including Commander Shepard."

Miranda smiles tiredly, leaning back against the chair. "Tell that to the Illusive Man." It's a slip and they know it. Jacob makes an excuse and she lets him.

* * *

Morinth watches Shepard stare angrily at the stars. In the beginning she visited more frequently. Since the death of Kasumi Goto her visits have dropped considerably, offering her only curt nods in the hallways when they pass one another. Morinth smiles to herself, thinking of how Shepard nearly bit her head off when Morinth joked that Shepard got Kasumi killed for having an inkling of Morinth's identity.

When she met Shepard at Afterlife she was _strong_, flush with power. Morinth wanted her, craved her. Now and then she'll toy with the idea of having Shepard, melding with her. It would be euphoria to taste her, absorb her essence. A part of her wonders if the high would be too much, send her into overload. But she doesn't buy it. Shepard is a person, like any other, not half as immortal as she thinks she is. She should know that lesson particularly well. Morinth would kill her if they melded. She wonders if her mother would approve or disapprove, all things considered.

Now Shepard is wilting. Shepard wanted her once. Morinth saw in her apartment that seducing her would be an easy thing. Does Shepard know how pathetic she looks? She rests an arm against the glass of the observatory, head bowed. When she first came in, her eyes were glassy. Not dead of emotion, like the husks Morinth leaves behind. They were suffused with feeling, too much of it. Morinth asked questions and Shepard, too stiff, breathing too quickly was unable to respond.

Morinth rises from the couch, her black heels clacking loudly on the floor like a death knell. She stands behind Shepard, bringing her hands to her shoulders. Shepard lifts her head slightly as Morinth presses to her back. Shepard's body is hard. It's difficult to not feel a little excited. "The little asari did a number on you, didn't she?" Shepard tenses, the white of her Cerberus shirt going taut. Morinth brings her lips to Shepard's ear. They graze there. "She may be Benezia's daughter but she doesn't have her brains." Her hands slide down Shepard's arms. "Only a fool would turn you away."

Shepard only responds with a raspy, tired sigh.

"Take me to Hagalaz with you," this is the reason she invited Shepard into the room to begin with. Shepard turns, her back to the glass this time. Morinth keeps her arms to either side of her. She can read the question in Shepard's eyes and she smiles. "Come on, you know Miranda doesn't really have your back. I do." Plus, the Shadow Broker would make for an exquisite meld. The power to be gleaned from him—or her… would be a boon.

Shepard's eyes are so glassy and clean, unfeeling that Morinth is momentarily reminded of her mother. She laughs lightly when Shepard takes her arms and reverses their positions, pushing her against the glass. "It's not a good idea. She knows about me and Samara."

Morinth arches an eyebrow. "You and Samara?" There's a moment. "Why Shepard. Did you take advantage of my mother's Justicar oath?" she scoffs. "Serves her right for living under such a rigid existence. People like her need rules, morals, codes. They wouldn't know how to function without them."

Shepard is unreadable. Was she expecting anger? Indignation? "I can't screw this up. You're _not_ going. You'll stay away from her while she's onboard."

"That's not fair, Shepard. There aren't many purebloods around. Maybe I get lonely too. It'd be nice to connect. I'm sure there's more than a few things we share in common."

Shepard's only response is a physical one. The air crackles with biotic energy. It's a threat, Morinth knows, Shepard wrapped in tendrils that ebb and pulse dangerously. They look like snakes, writhing and ready to strike. Morinth smiles, lifting her hands in defeat, letting her walk away.

* * *

"Hey, Liara. You need to try this," with great effort Joker gets to his feet. Liara feels a pang of sympathy for the trials and tribulations a man with Vrolik syndrome must experience but he doesn't seem to share her reservations. "Come on, sit down, sit down," he tells her excitedly. Liara smiles wanly, trying to shake the last vestiges of her conversation with Shepard and sitting on the pilot's seat. "Leather…! Nice, huh?" His fingers trail down over the material as if it were a lover. Liara pales slightly. "I'll give it to these Cerberus bastards, they know how to build ships!"

"That you continue to be impressed after all this time speaks to the craftsmanship of the Cerberus R&D teams," EDI pops up. Liara glances at the holographic representation at the same time that Joker scowls, having enough of standing and waving Liara away to reclaim his seat. "Welcome aboard the Normandy, Liara T'Soni. If you have any need of assistance, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Ah, what does she need you for? She was on the Normandy long before you were," Joker bats an arm at EDI, harmlessly swatting through her and squares his shoulders against the seat, looking back up at Liara and smiling. "Man, look at you. Never pegged you for a black lipstick kind of girl." He starts laughing, raising his hand as if prepared to tell a joke he found too humorous to tell with a straight face. "Garrus told me that some crazy asari kicked the Commander's ass to the ground and you didn't even flinch! Just kept hauling ass after her. Stone cold, Liara! Kind of hot," he adds as an aside.

Liara frowns gently. How often will that be brought up? If Shepard had done the same no one would question her. "I couldn't lose sight of her," she shrugs gently. The EDI hologram is still as if listening to the conversation. She still doesn't trust Cerberus and is hesitant to speak in front of the AI. "How has she been?"

"I told you! Purring like a dream," he reaches out and pets the holographic interface gingerly. Liara reasons that he needs a girlfriend. He looks at her, arching an eyebrow. She arches her brow in return and he scratches his beard, removing the hat before putting it back on. "Oh. You mean, Shepard? Scary as ever! But we need that kind of thing around the Collectors, right? They're not the type you can pull punches with." He clears his throat. "So uh—are you two—" A withering look silences him. "Why doesn't anyone tell me anything? I'm only the pilot that gets people in and out of their missions," he grumbles.

Liara leaves him. The trip to Hagalaz is taking longer than anticipated. She wouldn't put it past Shepard to have instructed Joker to take 'the scenic route' if it will. Things were left tense between them. Liara wonders if she can truly be angry at her. Being brought back from the dead must be a traumatic experience. She was handed to an organization she despises and doesn't trust. The only ones to stand with her are Garrus, Tali, Joker. She must feel so alone.

Shepard always had a reputation for breaking hearts. Liara supposes this time it was her turn. Shepard asked her to join her and Liara declined. She was not honest about how she felt even if Shepard was with her. She didn't return her messages. Perhaps it's to be expected.

The feeling gnaws at her from the recesses of her mind but Liara doesn't allow herself to process it. She only wishes there were some space where she could be on her own until they arrived at their destination. The Normandy is bigger than it was before. Brighter. Liara takes the elevator to the third floor. She sees Chakwas in the distance, a gray haired balding man scowling at a pot on the stove and the med bay where she once spent her time.

She ignores all of it, heading instead to the room that was once Shepard's cabin and is now Miranda's. She walks in uninvited, not caring for protocol. There isn't much time. The room is larger than it once was. A spacious bed rests at the back. Liara wonders if Shepard has spent time in it. She has acted as if she hates Miranda Lawson but brought her along to chase after the Shadow Broker. Shepard has never let hatreds get in the way of bedding attractive partners.

"Dr. T'Soni," Miranda says amiably. She nods at a seat but Liara doesn't take it. She waits for the door to slide shut behind her but even then Liara is left without words. "I'm sure things look somewhat different than you remember. Our uniforms may differ from those worn by your SR-1 crewmates, but our mission is essentially the same: stop the Collectors, stop the Reapers. You won't sit?"

"I am fine. Thank you." She crosses her arms gently. "I… appreciate your help in this matter. You know better than anyone the trouble the Shadow Broker caused for me. For us." Miranda gives one solitary nod. "Two years later and he remains a thorn in my side."

"Not for much longer."

"You're right." But the words give her no satisfaction. She takes the seat now that it's no longer being offered and crosses one leg over the other. "I must admit, I thought it foolish to think you could really bring her back. Yet here she is, alive and as frustrating as ever." Miranda's eyes brighten lightly though Liara doubts it's at the compliment as much as an agreement over Shepard's personality. "I worried at first. Especially when I first saw her again. She looked terrible," she admits.

"Perfectly normal," Miranda quickly jumps in. "The implants are experimental. At this point they're affected by attitudes and dispositions. Hers … wasn't the most pleasant. No doubt her circumstances caused her significant stress," she talks more to herself than Liara, "resulting in a rejection of the implants. As you can see, she's looking better now."

"Yes. But worse for wear this time around than the last time she visited," Liara says. Miranda's brow furrows thoughtfully before whatever brought the concern to her face is wiped away. "Thank you. For taking care of her." Miranda taps a finger on the desk gently and then nods. "As you may know, I keep a close eye to all matters on Illium. Some months ago there was a departure with an asari named Enyala, a man named Niket and a young woman. Your name was mentioned." Liara searches her face but sees nothing that would indicate she'd heard anything out of the ordinary. "Whatever the situation… I hope that it was resolved to your liking."

The ship jostles and both women stand. { "Uh, looks like we've got a buttload of turbulence," } Joker says over the intercom. { "I suggest everyone strap down and hold on tight until I can get us through." }

Liara exits the room without another word. Shepard is in the hallway, appearing unfazed by the heavy rocking of the ship. Liara thinks to the last time they were together like this. It isn't all too different from the last time she truly saw her alive. Their eyes lock and they take unsteady steps to one another, stopping when they reach a shared destination—a metal column with discreet handles on it. _They really did think of everything,_ Liara thinks with some bitterness. She grasps a handle. Shepard is opposite of her, a hand securely on Liara's arm to steady her. "I'm fine, Shepard," she doesn't bother trying to shake the arm, knowing that attempting to do so will only send her sprawling backwards.

Shepard releases her. "Have it your way, T'Soni."

Liara resents herself for the disappointment she feels.

* * *

Grace walks ahead with a determined bounce in her step. Hope shakes her head and follows. Ilos is a sweltering ruin. The remaining ruins are only shadows of their former selves. Ilos isn't quite as daunting as it initially was when Shepard came years ago. Asari have set up camps to study the planet, hoping to find salvageable technology, perhaps study the construction of mass relays. Grace spotted a massive frigate while circling the skies for a landing zone. Hope instructed her to steer clear.

They landed the shuttle a good distance from the campsites. Grace bored her on the trip to Ilos, going on about Liara T'Soni's Prothean papers, about Protheans in general, delving into obscure, mind-numbing facts she found terribly interesting. Hope understands the value of the graybox but sometimes wishes she hadn't implanted her with it. Of all the things she'd expected for Shepard—Grace, Shepard—_bloody hell_ –being a nerd wasn't one of them.

"Think there are geth here?" Grace asks.

"Why would there be geth?"

Grace pulls the N7 helmet from her head, shaking her shoulder length brown hair out and tying it up. There are streaks of red in it, presumably from spending an inordinate amount of time in the sun. She holds the helmet at her side. She's taken to the helmet, despite the superiority of the one she'd previously used. Hope has asked why she wears it but has gotten no real response. She met Kaidan Alenko when she visited the Normandy crash site. It's the extent of what Grace told her. Hope mulls over her growing secrecy. "Wasn't it overrun by geth once?"

…Yes but Hope doesn't know how Grace would know. She hasn't told her. It's possible she's scoured the extranet searching for clues of Shepard's visit two years ago. The information would be classified. Hope has taught her a few tricks, simple hacks that might be used in a pinch. Grace has taken to studying the material while listening to classical music. Hope prefers heavy, pulsing beats to composers who have been dead for centuries but doesn't ask her to stop her ways. She's inclined to think that Grace might go ahead and do what she wants even if Hope were to ask. "I doubt there'd be asari camped out if that were true," she says. All close to the Conduit.

Grace nods, expression thoughtful before excitement permeates her features. She runs over to a grotesque statue of some bizarre creature sitting. Hope scoffs softly. She's like a child. Hope thinks of her skillful mouth. Well. Not always. "Look at this!" She pulls at the massive vines that veil the stone monument, pulling it free to better look at it. It's even more grotesque. Its body is long and hunched over, bald head bowed with what looks curiously like tentacled beards. "Inusannon!" Hope waits, hoping there will be a translation for her gibberish. "They lived here before the Protheans," Grace tells her good-naturedly. She runs her hand along the statue. "This is great."

"Riveting. Let's get going."

Instead of pouting, Grace jauntily leaves the side of the statue and snaps a picture of it with her omni-tool, grinning at Hope, trying to get a picture of her (she quickly moves out of the frame) before they move along. It's hot and muggy. Hope feels her hair beginning to curl. Just once she'd like to go somewhere where she wasn't freezing to death or threatened with heat stroke. Grace is too starry-eyed to be bothered, the only indication that she may be hot is a swipe to her forehead and neck with the back of her hand.

"Shepard came to Ilos to track down Saren," Hope tells her without much enthusiasm, the stifling heat sucking away any energy she may have. "She brought Garrus and your Liara T'Soni." Grace glances back at her curiously. "Geth _had_ in fact overrun the planet. They were working in allegiance with Saren who was after the Conduit. It turned out to be a back door to the Citadel."

"Sounds handy."

"To the Reapers."

Grace frowns. They wander for several more hours, Grace taking more pictures of the landscapes and architecture. Hope muses over Grace who was inordinately tense prior to arriving on Ilos. Truthfully she's grateful to see her lively as she is now. She seems to grow more sullen by the day, more introspective. She once chattered incessantly and plied her with questions. Recently she only looks at her, as if any answers Hope might give would be unsatisfactory, as if she is content to figure matters out for herself.

They traverse a too long tunnel before Grace snakes to an opening on the right hand side. Hope curses her under her breath. She's like a toddler. Perhaps a leash would be beneficial. She smirks at the thought and follows her down a lengthy hallway to what looks like a stone podium. The path ends there. Hope looks around her. Stone walls rise high, thick vines and dried out heavy branches spread out like veins on the surface. "Is there a reason we're here?" Hope asks her.

Grace touches the podium, kneeling before it, walking around and tapping it again before looking dispirited. She shakes her head. "No reason. Let's go." Her voice is a soft, frustrated growl.

They're nearing the shuttle when static snaps, breaching their omni-tools. They stare at their instruments but nothing else happens. Hope shrugs. They keep walking when static bursts again.

"_Mayday, mayday! This is Lieutenant Kurin of the Divination! We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack! Our group consists mostly of unarmed scientists. Unknown shuttles with armed soldiers have arrived. We are on Ilos and requesting immediate assistance!"_

The coordinates are given and then there's nothing.

Hope looks at Grace, who's already looking in the direction of where they previously saw the large frigate. The coordinates match. Grace walks with purpose to the shuttle. "_No_." Grace keeps walking. Hope follows after her, glaring as she sits purposefully on the pilot sea, prepping the shuttle for takeoff. Hope takes hold of her shoulder and pulls. "We can't risk you. They're asari. They're not our concern."

Grace narrows her eyes and yanks the helmet on, pulls her arm free. "We're going."

* * *

The violent rocking of the UT-47 Kodiak is enough to make her stomach do flips. Shepard can't remember the last time she ate. She's been far too preoccupied with Liara who is currently glaring at the shuttle door, itching to get out and onto the Shadow Broker ship. Miranda has kept to herself, looking a little bored if not mildly irritated at having to be near them while they are in obvious conflict.

"It's probably going to be more of the same," Shepard tells them, trying to ignore the way Liara's arm brushes against hers when the shuttle jostles suddenly. This is the eleventh time. "We cripple their shields, set off biotic detonations. Knock them off the goddamn ship if we can. I don't want to waste any more bullets on this shit."

"Aye aye, Commander," Miranda says lightly.

Is she making fun of her? Her eyes are boring into the back of her skull. Whenever Shepard glances back she's focused on some omni-tool search. Frowning, Shepard glances discreetly at Liara when she can. She thought dying screwed with her. It looks like it took a bigger toll on Liara than it did on her. Shepard can deal with implants. She can deal with the scars. She would give anything to restore whatever it is that Liara lost in the two years that she was gone. The spark in her eyes, the curiosity, her love. Shepard remembers how her cheeks would flush nearly purple when she was embarrassed, when Shepard looked at her, the first time they made love. There's no trace of humor or emotion in her anymore. Part of her is relieved that Liara is livid about her affairs. The other part is terrified that she'll never be able to make it up to her.

They begin the descent to the ship. Liara's arm knocks into her again. Twelve times. Shepard tries to catch her eye but Liara refuses to look at her. When the shuttle door opens, Shepard takes her arm. "We're going to get through this." She doesn't know if she means the mission or the mess their relationship is in. Is she kidding herself to think they're in one anymore? "I'm not giving this up."

"Let's get to Feron," and without waiting for another word she leaps off the shuttle, wavering in the vicious wind for an instant before landing safely. Shepard hadn't known she was holding her breath. She does a running jump, rolling on the landing, nearly losing her balance the moment she stands. Lightning cracks in the sky. Liara's arm shoots out, grabbing hold of her before she tumbles back. Shepard smiles. Liara averts her eyes. "I still need you."

"How sweet," Miranda says landing neatly beside them. Liara releases Shepard and steps back. Miranda primes the M-9 Tempest and moves ahead. "Let's get off this deathtrap, shall we?"

* * *

There's a host of dead asari littering the ground when Grace lands the shuttle. She quickly unbuckles her seatbelt and gets to her feet. Hope is scowling beside her, checking weapons. The _Divination_ is a large vessel. Several unrecognized shuttles surround it. Grace picks up several lift and frag grenades, clipping them to her belt, leaving the majority of the frag grenades for Hope.

The air smells hot and rusty when the shuttle door opens. Hope slams a clip into the M-97 Viper before double-checking the M-11 Wraith. Grace unholsters the Paladin. "Cloak and cover me," Grace orders Hope. She doesn't look back.

Gunshots pepper the air. Grace hears panicked screaming and moves faster, dodging and weaving her way through the bodies. Purple blood trails down the mouth of unseeing asari. Others only have part of their heads remaining. Scientists. She thinks of Liara T'Soni, suffering the same fate as these women have—victim to whatever force has come to end lives.

She finds cover behind a stack of crates and gets a visual on some mercenaries. Some are asari with tech armor, gunning down scientists, shaking them for answers. She's nearly taken by surprise when one comes around the corner. Grace grabs her, slamming her to the ground. A flick of biotics with her wrist and she's snapped her neck. She doesn't recognize the three-point star that emblazons her armor, but Hope does. "Shadow Broker," she whispers fiercely, putting a hand on Grace's arm. "We don't need this. We can still leave."

Grace shakes off the hand. _The Shadow Broker_. The name sounds vaguely familiar. It doesn't matter. She runs ahead, sneaking behind one of the shuttles with its door open. There are five mercenaries inside laughing and having sips of water from a canteen. Grace pulls the pin from the frag grenade and tosses it gently into the shuttle. She pulls the door shut biotically, hearing the mercenaries' shrieks before they splatter inside the shuttle.

The shuttle explodes not too long after. Cries of surprise sound and Grace hears mercenaries running towards her. She chucks a lift grenade at them when they're in sight. It goes off with a boom, sending them reeling in the air. It's then that she hears the sound of the sniper rifle, relieving the mercenaries of their heads, leaving their bodies to spin bloody designs on the ground before crashing with a thud.

She'll have to thank Hope for that later, as unlikely as it is that Hope will want to speak to her. The mercenaries are reckless. They likely didn't expect resistance. Unarmed scientists, was it? As she moves she hears the sound of the sniper rifle ringing sharply and more desperate shouts from the mercenaries. _Stay cloaked, Hope._ She should have stopped long enough to tell her to leave if the situation got too hot, if something happened to her. She was zealous. It's pointless. Hope wouldn't leave without her. Would she?

There's no time to think about it. An asari clad in black leathers drops down in front of her, wrapped in biotic power, M-8 Avenger assault rifle aimed squarely at her. "You're not dressed like them," she tells her.

"Put the gun down."

"No way. Do you know how many we've lost here today? In minutes?" The asari is a relatively young one with pink face markings along her brow and jawline, descending down to her neck. Grace can't quite make out the color of her skin. The endless orange cast of the sun bleeds into everything. "Tell me who you are." Her voice shakes but Grace doesn't know if it's from anger or nerves.

Grace bites her tongue. Hope has fired off three more shots. They don't have time to waste. "I'm Commander Shepard." The asari looks at her, unsure. Grace reluctantly removes the helmet, feeling herself grow sweaty and nauseous at the lie. What the hell can 'Grace' do for her now? How will it help the woman whose team is getting butchered? "I'm here to help."

"Commander Shepard," she says hastily. "You saved the _Destiny Ascension._" Grace nods slowly. The asari lowers her gun. "All right. Goddess. I'm Lieutenant Kurin. I didn't expect anyone to hear my distress call. I can't believe my luck. With you at our side some of us might be able to make it out of here. I don't know who these guys are—"

Grace slips the helmet back on. "They're with the Shadow Broker."

"Shit. Why's he involved?" A flurry of shots and the two of them make a dash for some cover alongside the flank of the ship. Bullets ping off the metal exterior. "Asari are instructed in biotics since they're born. Unfortunately this team never went the way of being huntresses—or even dancers. Clients can get pretty nasty, you know," she swallows anxiously. "These scientists are pretty weak biotics, even by human standards. Uh—no offense. They didn't stand a chance."

"I'm assuming since you're here to guard them you know how to handle yourself."

"Yeah. You're a biotic too—if those ANN things and Illium stories are right." Her composure hardens, determination sparking in her blue eyes. "We'll set off some detonations. There's still a small team—" she says anxiously.

"We're going to get you and them out of here, Lieutenant," Grace gives her a few of her grenades. "If the Shadow Broker wants his people back, we'll send the bastards back in pieces."

Lieutenant Kurin smiles with relief. She gives a solid nod. Grace charges.

* * *

Miranda wonders if there's any way Cerberus could take over the Shadow Broker ship. Normally she'd have suggested it but haste is of the essence and she understands that Liara's task is delicate. It's likely Shepard would shoot the idea down regardless. Despite Shepard's jealousy she's agreed to release Feron.

The man on the slab is hardly the one Miranda remembers. She doesn't spend much time examining drells but the Feron she remembered was mischievous, his eyes seeming to glint despite the impossibility. He has aged after two years of captivity and torture. The contraption attached to him looks rigged to flood his nervous system with pain should he speak or struggle. He's pale and sweaty, growing more so when Shepard continues to plow him with questions.

Perhaps if he'd agreed to join Cerberus he wouldn't be in this position. She's hard pressed to find why he'd join a human survivalist organization—if he had, she wouldn't have trusted him. He worked for the Shadow Broker. But in the end they have him to thank for Shepard.

Shepard and Liara have alternated between bickering like an old couple and genuinely amusing banter. If Liara helps Shepard's state of mind, helps her focus then all the better for it. Liara must be under a good deal of stress as well. How else could she explain stating that Shepard looked worse for wear this time around? The last time Shepard went to Illium her body was rejecting the implants. Reaper technology at its finest, Miranda thinks dryly. Regardless, it got the job done and she and Cerberus succeeded where no other would.

Now they catch their breath. This brief moment of respite with Feron is their only opportunity after fighting through hordes of the Shadow Broker's soldiers. They may be closing in on him. Miranda rubs her shoulder. She took a bullet and it still itches from the medi-gel Shepard quite literally slapped onto her. Still, she's able to use her pistol so she can't complain too much. At least now Shepard isn't just staring after Liara like a lost puppy. She's also trying and failing to stop herself from glaring at Feron.

"He knows we're here," Liara says softly. "I'm afraid he'll hit a 'kill switch' and take him from us." She presses to the glass, peering at him. Miranda wonders if he grimaces because he heard the words.

"That's not going to happen," Shepard cocks her shotgun, emptying the chamber. The bullet casing clinks to the floor. "We'll get him and you out of here."

"_After_ we kill the Shadow Broker."

"Right, right. If the ship goes down, the Shadow Broker goes down with us," Shepard smiles wryly. "Anyone ever tell you your priorities are kind of screwed up, T'Soni?"

"Oh?" The irritation is clear in her voice. Liara crosses her arms but she's trying not to smile. "You're one to talk."

Miranda clears her throat. "Shall I go take care of the Shadow Broker while you finish…whatever this is up?" The Shadow Broker has got to be just about out of soldiers but that still leaves him to contend with. For all she knows he's got the room outfitted with turrets. Walking in could be an instant death sentence. Shepard glares at her. Miranda is surprised that she feels some small degree of pity for her. Miranda can't recall a time Shepard has looked so happy—lively—despite the clearly troubled situation between them. "Or you two could deal with the Broker while I try to extricate Feron from this…contraption?"

"Do it," Shepard says. "Unless T'Soni has an objection?"

"'T'Soni' does not. Let's go, Shepard."

Liara rushes ahead. Shepard walks backwards for a moment, smiling at Miranda before turning on her heel to chase after the asari. Miranda turns her attention towards Feron. The chair he's been strapped to is a mean one. Jack would argue that Cerberus has done far worse but what is Jack except a little girl who thinks she knows what's happened? She can't imagine the emotional trauma the woman has endured to believe the things that she does. She can't blame an entire organization for one rogue faction.

Miranda touches the glass window that separates her and Feron with a hand. Biotic energy pulses along the glass until it starts to crack little by little. Soon it's reduced to clear mosaic. A swift push and it falls apart. She jumps to the other side and studies the chair Feron's attached to. There must be some way to disarm it. She brought Shepard back from the dead. She can figure out a simple trap.

"I'll have you out of here in no time," she tells him. Time is relative. After two years of torture it might not feel like any time at all. Or perhaps a moment of torture is never ending.

* * *

Lieutenant Kurin is a fierce biotic and a skillful shot. It doesn't take her long to cast away any doubt she may have had. Together they mop up the remaining mercenaries, managing to save a dozen or so scientists. The massive salarian who led them is the only one who manages to get away.

Grace reasons the outcome is still acceptable. They search the surrounding area for any survivors. They find a handful and diligently apply medi-gel to the wounded. Hope joins them not too long after, expression sour and introducing herself reluctantly to Kurin by the name of Helen Smith.

Her accent is gone again but Grace doesn't ask. The moment Kurin turns to speak to the scientists Hope snaps at Grace. "We're not on the bloody Normandy. We can't afford to give out the limited medi-gel we have as if we had an infinite stock in the infirmary. What will we do if you need it?" Grace shrugs in response. Hope is ready to berate her further when Kurin returns. "Any idea why the Shadow Broker would be after you?"

"The Conduit." She allows a beat. "Has to be. This team has been here since – well, since you were last here," she tells Grace. "We believe it's a back door to the Citadel. I'd ask you but I'm sure you'd tell me it's classified." Grace looks around as asari shepherd others onto the _Divination_. They've been patched up but some still bleed. They'll live but no doubt they'll be scarred by the events, remembering those they lost. Grace thinks of her CAT6 team. Fucking Collectors. "Anyway, it's possible to move it. We were in the final stages of preparing for that possibility. If the Reapers are real—"

"They are," Grace says firmly, surprised at her own conviction.

"Then it'd be best to take it to an undisclosed location."

"Isn't that something Commander Shepard should be privy to," Hope asks. Kurin looks skittishly between the two women. "If anyone is going to stop the Reapers, it'll be her. Seems to me something like that would be good to know."

"Sorry, but that's not up to me. And as far as I know, the Alliance has denied any existence of the Reapers. As has the Council. On Thessia… I can only say that our homeworld has a vested interest in keeping their options open and safeguards in place." Kurin's explanation nets only a frown from Hope. "And even that is saying too much." She bites her lip. "I'm unsure if reinforcements are on the way. We're lucky our pilot survived. It's all thanks to the two of you. I wish I could thank you in some way—"

"Perhaps some credits will cover it," Hope suggests.

"That won't be necessary," Grace cuts Hope off before she can finish. "I understand the need for urgency. Whatever you're planning, it'd best be done quickly. If the Shadow Broker is after you, no doubt it's important." Kurin nods gratefully. They shake hands. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Same to you, Commander. And thank you." Kurin holds her hand an instant longer than Grace anticipated before letting go. She smiles before turning, climbing the ramp onto the _Divination_.

"You told her you were Shepard?" Hope asks once Kurin's out of earshot. Her voice is even despite the incredulity she must be experiencing.

"She wouldn't put her gun down."

"At this rate I could shoot you myself. That's just brilliant. While you were at it why not tell her you're a—" she cuts herself off and glares in another direction.

"A what?"

Hope rubs her eyes. "Never mind. Let's get out of here." They return to the shuttle, Hope's mood becoming fouler by the moment.

Grace tries to mend the situation but isn't sure how to reason with her. "We did the right thing. You know we did the right thing." She takes the pilot seat, buckling the seatbelt as Hope yanks the shuttle door closed.

"They're _asari_. Asari who are clearly up to something with that Conduit. Something they refuse to tell even 'Commander Shepard'. They're only after themselves. How are you so naïve? You're risking yourself just as stupidly as Shepard."

"Who cares what they are? A life is a life." She fixates on the command console in front of her, afraid she'll say something she regrets.

* * *

Shepard's eyebrow is gashed open and bleeding along with her split lip. It reminds Liara of the scars she had before being reconstructed. She remembers the divot in Shepard's lips when their lips brushed together. She ignores the memory now to look around the room. Power has been restored. Feron and Miranda ran in to aid them—all too late. Shepard's hardsuit is nearly obliterated. A massive dead yahg lies sprawled on its back, broken glass everywhere. Liara is the Shadow Broker.

The power is… tantalizing. Far more than any biotic prowess could grant her. Feron is safe. Injured, bleeding and skittish but alive. Miranda has offered to return him to the Normandy for a short period of time to have Chakwas look him over. Liara accepts the invitation on his behalf.

It leaves her and Shepard in a metal tomb, her new domain. The holographic glowing ball bounds around the room, inquisitive and eager to offer assistance. Liara pays it no attention. Whatever it is will be useful in the future. Now she's trying to process the enormous undertaking at hand. What is she doing? Is it right…? But if not her, who? The network is far too valuable to leave unattended, to leave for some other to discover and take over.

She stares at the volley intel reports coming in. Some from Eden Prime, others from Ilos. There's so much of it, so much to discover. It is like a Prothean dig site but alive and evolving. Shepard looks around the space as if a little lost. "We're going to have fun dragging this bastard out. Unless you plan to skin and leave him as a rug. Too bad there isn't a fireplace."

Liara grimaces. "He's a yahg, not some animal." Though she does bring up a very interesting question. How does one remove something of that size? That and his personal army. It'll be a gruesome and time draining process. "Here," she removes some medi-gel from her belt, applying it to Shepard's eyebrow and lips before she can protest. Shepard hisses softly as her skin stitches back together. "You took quite a beating." Shepard is a tall woman but next to the yahg she looked small.

"The bigger they are, the faster they beat you into unconsciousness," she smiles faintly. Liara sees the hope in her face and pulls away reluctantly. "Feron is safe. The Shadow Broker dead. Looks like all your dreams came true."

"Yes. Thanks to you." There's a pause. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be able to get anything done if it weren't for your help."

"Managed to get me to Cerberus and away from the Collectors. I'd say that's a sizable feat."

"Perhaps." Liara rubs her forehead softly. "It's going to take so long to go through all of this. It's a good thing I'm an asari. Everything that is stored here—it could take centuries just to go through it all."

"You're sure you want to do this?" Shepard asks. Liara looks at her. Shepard wipes her face, smearing blood along her chin and cheeks, her lips. "What does this mean?" Liara waits. "I thought…" she considers. "I thought after all of this was done you'd come with me. Now you're on another mission. A big one. Do you have to do this?" Liara frowns. "Leave it for someone else."

"I can't do that. I cannot risk it. Shepard—this has the galaxy's secrets. The Shadow Broker is omnipotent—like a goddess or god. The information stored in this station will be essential against the Reapers." She sighs softly. "Why do you look so uncertain? Do you think I'm not capable?"

"For fuck's sake. Who would ever think you're not capable?" Shepard moves to a console and touches it absently. Liara stares at her back. Her armor is splintered. Her shoulders are hunched, head bowed. "I thought. I just thought after this was over we could work on us again. You'd come aboard the Normandy. Or maybe not," she shakes her head. "We could run away. Get married. Have kids. Spend our time together."

"We won't have much time if we don't stop the Reapers," Liara sounds too sharp and she immediately regrets her tone. Shepard was never one to speak so concretely of commitment, Goddess, of having children! When Shepard died Liara thought of all their missed opportunities. She imagined herself as Shepard's bondmate, of having her children. It made her sob then. It makes her sad now. "I am sorry but… we can't just live for ourselves anymore. And you'd be bored."

"So what. You're willing to throw everything away to take on a new responsibility?"

"I can't believe you. You're accusing _me_ of throwing everything away?" Liara asks, her temper flaring again. "How are you so irresponsible? So childish? We can focus on stopping the Reapers or we can focus on us. Were you worried about throwing things away when you were making the rounds through the Normandy?" she demands. Shepard turns around. She looks sad and small. "Well. Have you anything to say about it? You admitted it. Am I supposed to be grateful?"

Shepard parts her lips but can't look at her. She covers her face with her hands. Liara wonders if she's crying. She can't be. She lowers her hands. Her cheeks are dry but her eyes are wet, narrowed as if to keep the tears in. "You have no idea what it's like to die and come back and have everything be different. _I'm_ different. " She steps towards her. "I feel crazy." She drags her hand through her hair. "I needed you. I _needed_ you, Liara. You weren't there. You wouldn't even consider it. I'm _not_ you. I'm not as _strong_ as you are. All right? Is that what you wanted to hear? I was lonely and miserable and I wanted to forget, for one fucking minute the Frankenstein I came back as. I did things I shouldn't have. I was wrong. I hated them. I hated myself. I hated you. I hated you for not… I thought you didn't love me. I thought you couldn't love me." Her words catch in her throat. "I need you. Everything that's happened with people who just happened to be handy… it just made me feel shittier and more alone. Every day I try to measure up to what you deserve and every day I fuck it up." She shakes her head. "You're the only worthwhile thing I have anymore." Her words stall sharply again. "I can't say anything to make it better. I'm not expecting you to forgive me. I love you. Please don't give up on me. Please let me make it up to you. I'm lost without you. I'm nothing without you."

Liara can only take it in. The words have rendered her speechless. Her throat is tight. Her heart pounds wildly. "That isn't true," she manages. It's such a clean, simple thing to say to her emotional outpouring. Perhaps Shepard did return differently. She was never so direct before. Never so desperate. It's as if she were hanging by a thread. Liara cautiously goes to her. She touches her face and brings her close. Shepard settles her forehead on Liara's shoulder. She shakes without making a sound. She smells of sweat and blood. She's solid. Real. Alive. Not some tangible ghost. Liara runs her fingers over her hair and realizes she's already forgiven her.

* * *

The problem is that she's everything about Shepard that was wrong: impulsive, reckless, sentimental. Hope fears that once more Earth and humanity will be put on the backburner to pursue diplomatic politically correct goals. The problem is that people feel guilty in acknowledging they need an edge. Pride becomes a mortal sin.

Shepard—Grace, reclines against a stack of pillows on the bed. She came away from the fighting on Ilos unscathed. She has her headphones on, listening to the music player Hope brought her the day she ordered the hit on her. She looks peaceful and soft. She isn't, Hope reminds herself, but it can be confusing.

Grace has shadows under her eyes. They traveled a long time in relative silence. She dons sweatpants and a black hoodie—the previous one worn during the massacre in Therum was thrown away. Hope crawls onto the bed on all fours, wearing only a spaghetti strapped shirt and shorts. If Grace notices she doesn't acknowledge her. Her finger taps absently on her leg to some rhythm.

Hope pulls one of the earplugs free and puts the bud into her ear resting on the mountain of pillows alongside of Grace. Black Mass. She doesn't remember the composer. Hope only knows it from Grace. The piece is erratic and tense, conflicting and panicked. "I don't like this one," she tells Grace. Grace absently changes the track. This one she recognizes. Air by Beethoven, a violin version. Grace would correct her on the sonata movement, she's sure. The shift in music relaxes her. This is a more uplifting piece with an undercurrent of sadness and longing. She's sure she doesn't enjoy it as others might. Beauty is ultimately a façade for something nefarious. "You don't understand me," Hope says.

"You don't want me to."

She's right but Hope doesn't concede the point. To do so would distract from the conversation. Hope shifts slightly onto her side, resting a hand on Grace's stomach. She waits for Grace to try to take it as she often tried to before but she doesn't. Hope is unsure if Grace has finally learned the proper nature of what happens between them or if she's simply growing tired of her. "You're important. You could be the only thing standing between Earth and the Reapers."

"The Reapers are greater than just Earth." She sighs softly, rubbing her eyes. "I think," she adds more hesitantly. "You know, sometimes I wish you cared more about me than just as a means to an end." The music continues to play softly in her ear. Hope listens for a long time and wonders if it calms Grace. It makes her tense. "Shepard can stand against the Reapers."

"She can't. She won't. You know that. I thought you understood." She lifts her face slightly to look at her. "Have you forgotten your promise already?" Hope isn't sure of what it means when Grace averts her eyes. "You're Shepard." Her hand slides beneath the hoodie, gliding along her skin. It's warm, soft. Maybe they complement each other. Warm and soft to Hope's cold and hard.

"Two people can't be the same person, no matter how badly you may want it." She scoots closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Hope tenses and frowns. Minutes pass. Her body softens, somehow. "There won't be two of you."

"I want to tell you something," Grace says. Hope stiffens again. She awaits another wretched love confession. "I don't remember my past. I have… feelings. Reactions. I get so panicked sometimes that I can't breathe." Hope's frown deepens. She does? She has? It's unexpected. She was meant to be free of Shepard's clutter. "All I have is now and the future and you at my side. I respect you. But I won't let people die when I can help them. I won't wait for someone else to get around to it because they aren't human. I'm not like that. You're not like that. You can't be like that."

Hope leans into her, unsure if Grace is repeating a mantra or stating a command. "You're so common." This time Grace goes rigid. They remain twined together resentfully for minutes.

"You're a coward," Grace returns gently. Hope isn't sure she heard the words. She wonders if they're meant to feel like an icicle in her belly. Maybe she's sick. Maybe she hates having her professionalism questioned. "Do what you want but I'm not going to let fear or your stupid guidelines compromise who I am. I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror."

Hope closes her eyes. The ascending music in her ear makes her feel like she's freefalling. Then it's ripped away and she's left with only the stillness and quiet of the room. Grace sets the music player aside on the nightstand. Her chest falls and rises. Hope pushes herself to a sitting before straddling her. Grace brings her hands to Hope's hips. Hope cradles Grace's head in her hands. "You're going to disappoint me." It's difficult to get the words out cleanly and stripped of emotion. "Please don't ruin everything we've worked for. Please."

"When have I ever made you proud?" The words are another icy stab between her ribs. Hope's losing control. She's losing control of her. Panic burns within. Grace pulls Hope's hands away, kisses them. "Hey. Don't look that way."

What way? The soft pressure of her lips against her own is no answer. What way, she wonders again? Disappointed? Disgusted? One of them sighs. Hope doesn't know which. A happy sigh, a sad sigh, tired sigh, disappointed sigh, angry sigh. She doesn't know. As her lips part under Grace's gentle insistence she still doesn't know.


	14. Disguises

A/N: Sorry for the delays! Life. Massive thanks for the reviews and follows and to Allusive for proofing and idea bouncing.

* * *

Commander Jane Shepard

D.O.B. 4.11.2154

Mother: Hannah Shepard

D.O.B. 8.31.2128

Father: James Shepard (deceased)

D.O.B. 3.13.2123

Deleted Email Drafts:

_Dear Liara_—

_Liara_

_Hey_

_Dr. T'soni_

_Dr. Liara T'soni_

_How are you? How are things? I miss you._

_You haven't responded to any of my emails. Too busy tracking down the Shadow Broker to send a response? It would take two fucking minutes._

_Fuck you. Fuck __**you,**__ Liara_.

_I wish you'd consider coming back to the Normandy. It isn't the same without you._

_I love you. I need you. Jesus Christ, I wonder if I'm even the same anymore. I look into the mirror and see a freak. Help me feel normal again, please._

_Did you ever love me?_

_None of these other women can fuck like you do._ _Do you even give a shit?_

_Who the fuck is this friend of yours you need to get back? Were you fucking around on me when I was dead?_

_Kaidan. I'm sorry about how things went down on Horizon. But Cerberus isn't as bad as you think. Is it really so bad for humanity to have an edge?_

_Liara. I've done something te—_

Extranet Searches:

Cerberus

The Illusive Man

Miranda Lawson

Liara T'Soni

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

Pragia scientists

Coping with guilt

Asari

Coming back from near-death experiences

Asari image search

Alliance Service History:

2172 Enlistment (Arcturus Station)

2177 Engagement at Skyllian Blitz

2178 Assault on Torfan moon, 90% of squad lost, final collateral toll adjusted to 75% by Alliance

2178 Psych Evaluation Ordered – ignored

2178 Court Martial – charges dismissed

2179 (ICT) N Candidacy Offered and Accepted

2180 N7 status granted

2181 Promotion to Commander status

2182 XO assignation SSV Normandy

2183 SPECTRE status granted by Citadel Council

2183 Casualty of Collector attack on SSV-Normandy

Post Alliance History:

2183 Body recovered by Liara T'Soni, handed to Cerberus

2185 Resurrected by Miranda Lawson and Project Lazarus

2185 Recruited ardat-yakshi Morinth

Sexual Partners since SPECTRE status:

Sha'Ira

Liara T'Soni

Zaeed Massani

Kelly Chambers

Jennifer (alias: 'Jack' 'Subject Zero' 'Jacqueline Nought')

Samara (deceased: executed by Commander Shepard)

A cold chill travels down Shepard's back. She's left thinking of stars and an oppressing lightness. The Shadow Broker drone zips around her, offering her any assistance with data management. Liara is some feet away in front of an array of monitors, trying to sort through the flood of intel streaming in. "Delete Commander Shepard and Justicar Samara's dossier," she tells the drone quietly.

"Of course, Shadow Broker. Is there anything else I can do to assist you?"

Shepard searches for their names in the database but comes up empty. She shakes her head and makes her way to Liara, circling her arms around her waist and pressing to her back. Guilt trickles through her like an icicle. She rests her chin on Liara's shoulder. Liara's hand grazes hers. "You're cold," she turns her head slightly to look at her.

"Aren't you?" she can barely hear her own voice.

"Maybe a little." She looks around the space. "I suppose not having the fat density of a yahg isn't doing me any favors," her fingers grip Shepard's more securely. "Now is the part when you make me an offer I can't refuse."

Nervousness dots Shepard's laughter. Will Liara somehow uncover what she's done? There's so much data buried in the network, there's no way of knowing what else there's left to unearth. Cold sweat springs to her forehead and she feels herself shake. It's possibly nerves. She's close to having Liara back in her life again. It's been years since they've been together. They've both changed, maybe too much. What if Liara rejects her? What if things are awkward? What if she can see into her mind? What if she sees everything she did to Samara? "This is like a dig site for you. Can I really drag you away?"

"You don't want to?"

Shepard's smile is like a grimace. She's never hesitated with her. Now she's afraid. She isn't ashamed of the things she's done—she's afraid of their discovery, of Liara's judgment. "You know full well I'd be more than happy to warm you up right here." She pulls away. Liara holds on to her hand, peering at her curiously. Shepard licks the sweat from her upper lip. "But… there's wine on the Normandy."

"Oh?" Liara walks alongside her. "Is that your plan?" She smiles. The deception, Shepard decides, will only cause _her_ massive stress. It will keep Liara happy. It will keep them together. That's worth anything. Sometimes you have to do despicable things for love.

* * *

The Shadow Broker ship is vast and empty. The cold in the air clings to her uniform. Miranda brushes past Shepard and Liara. Shepard pays little attention. Liara turns her head to watch her as they exit. No doubt Liara has been sifting through an intimidating amount of data. She gave Shepard access and grudgingly extended the offer to Miranda as well. She likely regrets it now but Miranda won't squander the opportunity.

The first task at hand is the one that has been instructed by the Illusive Man. Find traces of Cerberus activity and delete it. Miranda understands the need for secrecy. Cerberus' mission is far greater than what the masses understand, than the propaganda left and right wing zealots spout. Liara has been known to be idealistic and Shepard appears to be settling down—there's no need to give her further ammunition when she's at last beginning to trust them.

The annoying drone zips around her, bobbing and weaving as if dancing. Its insistence that she's the Shadow Broker is a benefit to be exploited—sooner rather than later when Liara no doubt patches the loophole. "Pull up all Cerberus activity and records." The drone merrily does so.

Miranda is overwhelmed by the amount of data that pops onto the haptic displays. The Illusive Man wanted it all gone… but surely there would be a benefit to keeping it safely stored with a trusted source. She takes a breath, unsure if the cold she feels is from the ship or from choosing to misinterpret what the Illusive Man ordered. She reads off her omni-tool ID number and instructs the drone to load all Cerberus data onto the device. She looks through the displays while the process is underway.

"Will that be all, Shadow Broker?" the drone asks.

"No." She considers. "Pull up all records on Commander Shepard."

"There is no data available," the drone quickly returns.

Hm. "Are you _sure_?" It seems unusual to say the least that the Shadow Broker would have no data on Commander Shepard. He was the bastard looking to get her body to begin with. It doesn't seem right. It seems bloody impossible. "Run another search."

"Finished, Shadow Broker. No data available." It seems to do a pirouette at the revelation. Miranda rubs her forehead gingerly before looking through the haptic displays at the Cerberus data. There are more Cerberus cells than she imagined. They're all classified, even Miranda doesn't know the majority of them. Some three months ago one in New Canton was extinguished. The Collectors hit it but the information on the haptic display shows no survivors. The scientists were studying Reaper activity.

Curious. It seems odd to lose an entire cell without her knowing. She's grateful to have it loaded onto her omni-tool to further examine the data at a later time. She's beginning to turn away from it to look at another display when she spots the words 'Shepard sighting'. Miranda frowns and looks at the date. The day the Collectors attacked New Canton. That can't be right.

"Commander Shepard has never been on New Canton," she tells the drone. The Shadow Broker is a fraud as it turns out. She wonders how much of the data is actually garbage. "Your source was wrong."

The drone stops its dancing and glides over to her side as if to look at the data with her. "Searching," it says. "Video feed from New Canton Cerberus facility RP05981173 found. Loading." Miranda doesn't have time to snap at it to stop wasting her time. A grainy video is on the screen in blacks and whites. The lighting is poor. There are four mercenaries. She doesn't recognize them. She's focused on the bodies of Cerberus operatives slumped dead on the floor. One of the mercenaries turns, puzzled, in the direction of the camera. Miranda stops. She grips the console fiercely until her knuckles are white.

No. That's impossible. "Pause the feed," she says breathlessly. The video is stopped. That face. There's no denying that face. It's identical. It's younger, somehow, clearer. It isn't Shepard. Shepard's face was a maze of scars then. Shepard was on the Normandy then. "Find and load all New Canton video feeds from the day of the Collector attack," she tells the drone. It fetches them. The Collector ship descends. The Shepard… thing exits the building, fights the Collectors until the feed fizzles and dies. She brings a trembling hand to her mouth. How could this have happened? How is this possible— "Find all 'Shepard sightings' as of a year ago."

A lengthy list is displayed prominently on the haptic display: Torfan, Therum, the Citadel, Noveria, Virmire, Ilos, New Canton, Alchera, Illium, more. Miranda is cold. She straightens and tries to think straight. A new name pops onto the screen: Horizon.

"Where is the Cerberus cloning facility located?" she asks. The coordinates pop onto the screen. Her throat is locked tight. "Are all clones accounted for?"

"Negative. X3 and X8 are aware."

"Where are they?"

"No data available."

Miranda swears. She double-checks her omni-tool to make sure the data transferred properly. "Make 'Shepard sightings' unavailable to anyone whose omni-tool ID key doesn't match my own. Forward all incoming Shepard sightings information to me. Discretely," she tells it. The drone forwards her a security key. They're loose. There's Cerberus property loose… who knows the damage they could cause the mission, could cause Cerberus. They're parts. Only spare parts for Shepard. If someone were to discover them—discover Cerberus' role—Cerberus might never recover. Her chest is too tight. "Delete all Cerberus data," she says exiting swiftly.

"Yes, Shadow Broker."

* * *

The Collector attack on Horizon is evidenced by toppled, mangled buildings riddled with bullet holes. No doubt Shepard contributed to the destruction. The colony is fairly small. The grass is sheared and scorched in areas. It smells like rain. Gray, threatening clouds permeate the skies. Shepard—Grace moves around cautiously. They've been walking for some time but aside from the rustling wind have heard nothing.

"Did they take everyone?" Grace asks.

"No. Some were spared. Not many." Hope has investigated the numbers. Only hundreds of the 650,000 some were left behind. Shepard managed to save some but not enough. Hope wonders if Shepard would have done a better job if it'd been an asari colony. "Shepard's former crewmate Kaidan Alenko was here. It didn't go well."

"I know." She spares her a glance. "I ran into him in Alchera." Hope grits her jaw. Shepard—Grace, is beginning to make a habit of withholding information from her. The more she withholds the bigger the risk of the mission failing. It was easier in the beginning. Hope thought she was malleable. Has she been too soft? "He thought I was Shepard. Don't worry about it."

"I decide what we do and don't worry about." She doesn't look to see if she's hurt her by speaking sharply. The fault may lie with her for being too considerate towards her feelings. Still, Grace has done well. She's stayed alive and killed without remorse. Yet her rebellions increase by the day. She's beginning to disregard Hope's advice. Hope clenches her fingers, as if to tighten her hold on the little control she has left. How does she appeal to Grace? Idealism has made her dangerous. "You need to start telling me—"

Her words are muffled as Grace clamps a hand over her mouth, pulling her back firmly against her in the shadows. Hope struggles and Grace holds her more closely. "Stop," she whispers. She nods up. Two Cerberus shuttles circle the sky before taking a gentle swing down below to land. Damn it. How did they track her? Grace's hand slides to Hope's neck, keeping her pinned. Her fingers tingle along her skin. Hope skims the parameter. "They're after you," Grace says lethally.

That's only partly true. Hope molds her face into barely contained panic. The display is as explosive as fireworks. Concern lights Grace's face like a beacon. Despite the danger, Hope battles a genuine smile and wins. The sneer that tempted her before is forgotten. She feels a sliver of order restored to her. "I can handle this." Grace's eyes flicker dark. Storm clouds are rolling in.

Hope senses an opportunity and she takes it, throwing herself wildly into the open, no cover in sight. The Cerberus troopers spot her. Hope fires blindly with the Phalanx pistol. The crack of a sniper rifle tears through the air. Her skin goes cold and clammy as they close in on her position. There's a collection of crates to the right. Hope makes a run for them, a hail of bullets pinging into her shields.

Grace swears. Their eyes lock. _Stay put_, Grace's eyes say. Hope yanks the sniper rifle from her back and lines up the shot. A trooper's head bursts like a melon as the soldiers scramble for cover.

"Go around, go around!" one of them shouts.

They're trying to flank her. Hope smiles through the inkling of terror. Her shields are taking far too long to recharge. The sniper rifle on that soldier must be incredible. It's only then she realizes her leg is bleeding. Adrenaline must have pushed her through it. She digs her finger into the bullet hole and holds back a painful shout. When she glances back to where Grace was she's gone. Hope's stomach clenches so painfully she's left dazed.

They won't take her. Grace won't let them. She searches the area but there's no sight of her. The footsteps of the soldiers move close. They're swarming around her like bees. It starts to rain but something is wrong. The water is like acid. She cloaks. The rain is eating through her shields. She makes a run for it. The muddied ground will either mask her footsteps or give her away. Maybe her bleeding leg will give her away. _She won't let them take me._

She wonders if Grace has seen through her.

* * *

The fish have slowed in the tank, excitement waning now that they're accustomed to their new home. Shepard notices them only because Liara says something. Shepard looks around the cabin and sees a bleakness that had gone unnoticed. Liara is like a light that illuminates faults, maybe the result of her own goodness.

Liara has seen the space before but they were heated then and blinded by their anger. Now she wanders the room like a visitor in a mausoleum. There is no dust. Liara looks at the glass case above Shepard's laptop. It's possible to see clean through the room and to the bed. Liara turns, sighting her picture. Her eyes are sad. "That doesn't look like me anymore."

Shepard is too aware of her distance and heat that emanates from her. "That's still you." Liara's protest is held in a look. "I still see it."

Liara smiles ruefully. "No models?" She touches the glass as if doubting her eyes. "I remember you had so many of those datapad magazines. You got serials. You even built a few." She looks at Shepard. Shepard shifts uncomfortably. "After Saren you'd stay up at night putting them together. There was one of a Mako."

"You suggested I prop it up on its side," Shepard says with a small grin.

Liara returns the smile. "You're a terrible driver."

"It was hard to sleep." It still is. "And even asari only have so much energy." Liara's cheeks color. _There you are_ Shepard nearly says _there's that spark._ She keeps the words to herself. "I don't care about that stuff anymore."

"Hm. I suppose I'm not one to lecture on enjoying the small pleasures." Her barely there ironic smile turns pained. Shepard knows what she's thinking of and hates herself for it. "What do you care about?"

"Stopping the Collectors. Stopping the Reapers. You. You above all." Liara looks off to the side. She stares at the charred dog tags. Shepard doesn't want them—it surprised Liara. She set them aside. Shepard tries not to look at them. She doesn't want to touch them. "You were the last thing I thought of when I died. The first I thought of when I woke." Liara narrows her eyes, her lips thinning, a hand cautiously to her throat. "I love you," she says hoarsely. "I am so sorry for all the ways I've hurt you. I'm so sorry for all the ways I'll hurt you again. I wish I could be better. I wish I could be worthy—"

Liara is the one to kiss her, urgent and needing. Shepard nearly stumbles down the cabin steps. An unexpected flush crawls up her cheeks. Liara feels the same, tastes the same. Her body is harder than before. They pull at each other's clothing in desperation. There's still much to discuss. How often will they see each other? Will Liara join her once she's had all the necessary data? Everything is up in the air.

They move forward feverish and afraid. What will Liara see? How deeply will she pry? Terror should shackle her but desire urges her ahead. Stripped naked, Shepard's pushed back onto the bed, a wicked smile playing on Liara's lips before she stops, hesitant. Shepard rests her weight on her elbows as Liara crawls onto the bed.

Shepard runs a hand along her stomach. Her pebbled skin is silken, she trails her hand to her face. "Talk to me." Liara bows her head. Her eyes shimmer. "I'm scared, too," she says carefully. "I'm so afraid I'll lose you." The tail end of her words get lodged in her throat. She wraps an arm gently around Liara's waist, drawing her close and then pressing her onto her back.

"I can't lose you again. Jane—" The words halt. Shepard presses their lips together, their kiss melancholy and yearning. Shepard remembers the cold of the sky, the shattering sadness that crippled her lungs, followed by burning, her hardsuit smoldering, dog tags charring before she was embraced by what she thought would be the never ending eternity of death.

The darkness cradled her, filled her until she was only a shell. Liara found her. Liara brought her back from the brink. Their kisses grow searing and hot and when their mouths part, their eyes meet again. Liara's go black and Shepard is not afraid. She goes willingly towards that knowing and familiar embrace of the darkness, happy to let it wrap around her like a cocoon.

* * *

The patter of the heavy rain soaks every noise, absorbing the sucking, sticky steps in the mud and the small, muffled sounds of soldiers having their throats ripped open. Grace was taught to kill at the CAT6 academy. Helmets have to be slipped on. A sliver is all that's needed to wedge a blade in and jerk it quickly.

Killing a man with a helmet is much like killing a krogan. It's all about finding that spot. Everyone has an Achilles' heel. Blood runs a pink watermelon color before it's reduced to mud like everything else. Hope was reckless. Hope is not reckless. Grace doesn't know what her plan is but she does not doubt that Hope has one. Hope is always prepared. Life and its players are reduced to a chessboard for her.

Grace presses to the wall. Her shields are still hissing from when the acid rain hit her. Her skin burns as if doused in scalding water. She's next to a home with glass walls. It's remarkable that people build homes that way; they're like open targets. What sheltered lives have they led that they would willingly expose themselves?

She sees the reflections of a man and woman. Grace doesn't know who her parents are but if she did she imagines they would be only a few years older than these people. She blinks her eyes rapidly. The soldier that moves around the corner cries out in alarm. She strikes quickly, delivering a swift, brutal kick to his shin, shattering it before grabbing him by the back of his helmet. The biotic power pulses through her, moving through her fingertips. It always makes her fingers tingle, charges the air with something akin to electricity. She releases the energy and his helmet and head are pulverized.

Sticky red chunks cover her fingers and suit. The nice older couple look appalled. They run. Grace can see through the glass to the other side. More soldiers heading in. Why did Hope expose herself? What is she trying to do? Grace pulls the glass door open and steps into the home, trekking mud and rain inside. They don't turn, fixated on the Cerberus soldiers stalking the parameter.

Jane Shepard is a vanguard. Hope's style is akin to infiltration. Grace is more adept at using biotics to tear her enemies apart but it makes for a lot of explosions. She'd rather not draw any civilians into the fight. CAT6 and Hope have taught her to move stealthily. A moment is all it takes. Her hands lash out. Grace covers their mouths and jerks them down to the floor. "Stay down," she tells them quietly. "They might not come after you if you stay out of the way."

"Are you Commander Shepard?" the man asks. "You saved us—you saved us a few months back—"

The soldiers pause outside the glass walls, staring in. Grace wonders if Kai Leng is near. For months she's thought of gutting him. Hope doesn't know how she tosses and turns in the night. She doesn't know how she clutches her side. Sometimes she says things that don't make any sense. When Grace things of killing him it's never quick or easy. She takes her time. She makes him suffer.

What if Kai Leng is near? What if he's caught up to Hope and finished the job? _Why did she throw herself out into the open?_ Grace skims the apartment. There's a photograph of the couple with a young woman in an Alliance uniform. Her skin is the color of caramel. Her dark hair glistens. She brandishes a bright smile with a compelling sliver of cockiness.

"Who are these people?" the woman asks shakily.

Blood pounds in her ears. A sharp cry and Grace throws caution to the wind. She leaps up and charges the group, smashing through glass and tossing back two soldiers. A flash of the sniper rifle and she whips back, yanking a bookshelf out to block the bullet at the last possible second. The Traynors—that's the name Grace thinks she saw—are safe for the moment.

Grace wasn't expecting a fight. She should know better by now. She searches the hazy grey skies, the acid rain stinging and blinding. A laser hones in on her and then another. Red dots dance along the muddy ground. She shrouds herself in a barrier, scrambling for cover where there is none to be found. There's a whisper of a sound and one of the red dots skids rapidly to the side before disappearing. The other one swipes away quickly, searching for another target.

She runs. Sweat and rain slide down her face and neck. Her steps slip in the muck. In desperation she hurtles through a wall of glass. The colony is a den of ghosts. This apartment has been ransacked, furniture toppled carelessly. Her hands and face begin a slow sting before throbbing.

She takes a slow breath, Paladin out. A soldier steps into the apartment. His frame is tall, powerful. He wears armor like polished obsidian. Grace stills, trapping the air in her lungs. Where's Hope? The soldier stops. Grace is frozen, trying not to draw the attention of the other soldiers. Drops of blood spill from her hands, enough to get his attention. The polished gold helmet turns in her direction. His arm guards pulse blue and then stop.

The Cerberus crest centered on his chest catches the light. She listens to his breathing, steps closer as he lowers to the ground. He sets aside his pistol. He unshackles the arm guards that seem to have whips coiled inside of them. He pushes them in her direction. It's unexpected. He's taking a risk that she won't just kill him anyway. Grace kicks them away. "Turn around. Hands behind your head."

He gets to his feet and turns around. "I just want to talk to you. I'm going to take my helmet off. Keep your pistol trained on me." Grace's nose flares. Most of the men she kills wear helmets. She doesn't see any advantage to him removing it but he's done it before she can protest. He faces her. Grace falters. His eyes are light blue. They aren't jaded. Blond, square jawed and handsome he bears a stunning resemblance to Santos. Santos died on New Canton. She tells herself that. How is this possible? Is it possible? "You're good."

"Where is she?" Her voice borders on breathless. She squints as blood trails into her eye.

"That woman you're with? You tell me." He smiles but grimaces when she presses the barrel of the gun to his head. "I'm not here for her. I'm here for you, Grace. You've been running for a long time." His voice is the same. "It's remarkable how much people can look alike, isn't it? You wonder what part of them is really them. Can really be them."

Grace takes a step closer, the barrel of the gun shifting to the middle of his forehead. Santos is dead. Whatever this thing is isn't him, can never be him.

"This must all be so confusing," he tells her. His eyes are soft and kind. Grace pretends not to feel the tightness spreading over her chest. "You look at this symbol and you think you know all there is to know about me. I understand. When something is real and concrete, when you've only ever had questions, knowledge is powerful. Cerberus has a bad reputation. We're not perfect. Some of our agents are questionable—but not all of us. You don't trust me. We only came here to talk to you. That woman… what's she calling herself these days…? Hope? She shot first."

Grace pistol-whips him. He stumbles back, a gash opening in his forehead. A profound sadness and regret fills her. He kneels on the floor. "I have cuffs. Go ahead and put them on me. They're on my belt." She looks cautiously and finds them. When she leans in to grab them she smells some hint of cologne, similar to what Santos wore. She's only ever smelled blood and sweat on Cerberus agents, shit when she let them sit around too long. He looks at her and she has to look away, using one hand to slap the cuffs on behind his back. "I'll stay here," he says with a smile.

She backs away from him. "Is Kai Leng here with you?"

He shakes his head. "Never met the guy. He's a little…ah, overzealous, isn't he? Heard he did Hope in on Bekenstein? He's always been a smug piece of shit. Not surprised Hope outsmarted him. She's _good_. The Illusive Man has been after her for a while. Can't blame him. I'd hate to lose one of my best agents too." He watches her keenly and though she reveals nothing except for a tightening of her jaw, he sees it. "She didn't tell you?" He shakes his head. "That's just like her, isn't it? Don't know what she's told you but Hope Lilium is Cerberus."

Hope Lilium…? In minutes he's told her more about Hope than Hope has in a year. The restricting feeling in her chest expands, making it all but impossible to breathe. Hope's Cerberus?

"That's an alias. When she joined she was Rasa. I think before that it might have been Sasha?" He shrugs. Grace stoops in front of him, peers into his face. He has light blond stubble on his face. "I misspoke, actually," he says softly. "She isn't Cerberus anymore. That's probably why she didn't mention it to you. She was with us for a while. One day she took all she could from us and left. I don't know if you've figured out yet that that's her way." Her eyes flash blue and he winces, preparing for a hit.

Grace steps back, running a hand through her hair, trying to gather her breath.

"Cerberus is here to give humanity an edge," he says. It's only when he says it that Grace realizes how close it is to the rhetoric Hope has spoken for months. "It isn't a bad thing to take pride in your race. To want to excel. To be the best we can be. That's all Cerberus wants." He looks up at her, blood trailing down the side of his face. Grace wonders if she hasn't asked what his name is because she wants to keep on pretending it could possibly be Santos. "Everyone should have the opportunity to live up to their potential."

"What do you want with me?"

He shifts his shoulders, rolling his neck lightly. "There's a war coming. The Reapers. We pretend like they don't exist—act like anyone who even mentions them is a lunatic. The Alliance does that too. So does the Citadel Council. We admit to it, it would create mass panic but they're real. Cerberus has created a project. The Phantom Project," he tells her simply. "We need agile, powerful biotics. You fit the bill. I know you don't trust me. I don't blame you. I have a shuttle. You killed my squad," he laughs before hanging his head, "I knew those guys for a while. But if you'll even consider our offer it'll be worth it. I know you can pilot a shuttle. Take us back. I'll stay in cuffs. I'm not going to try to fight you. I couldn't take you even if I wanted to. Credits don't mean a damned thing to someone like you but doing the right thing—and answers, Grace. Answers must mean a lot." Grace appraises him cautiously. She slips the pistol back into its holster. "I've got some medi-gel in my bag. Hate for your face to get scarred up." She finds a small pack attached to a belt on his leg. She yanks it open. There's only one dose. And a pair of sunglasses.

She unfolds them and slips them onto his face. Panic spirals inside of her. He grins. "Bit dark for shades, isn't it?" he asks.

She rips open the medigel pack with her teeth and applies it to his forehead where the hilt of the pistol cut his head open. His lips thin as his skin begins to stitch back together. She half-heartedly applies it to her own face and hands, feeling some need to continue as she has for the past year, finding a comfort in habit.

There's a haze when she looks up. As if she were looking to the outside through a waterfall. Hope materializes. Her face is venomous. Grace's face burns but she isn't sure if its with shame, embarrassment or anger. The Phalanx is positioned perfectly at the base of his skull.

Grace is on her feet, Paladin in hand instantly. It's pointed at Hope before she knows she's done it. Hope doesn't step away, doesn't back down. Her leg is bleeding. The venom in her face fades to something else—something broken before becoming determined and sure again. As if this was to be the only expected outcome. "Put the gun down," Grace says.

"Or what? You'll kill me?" Water drips down her face, blood runs down her leg. Her hand is steady while Grace's shakes. "Is this what you do the moment I leave you alone? Make nice with Cerberus agents?"

"It's over, Rasa," he says. Hope's eyes turn dangerously to him. "You've always wanted to control everything around you. Let her make her own decisions. We both know this mess you're in is your own doing."

"Shut up," Grace tells him, but her voice comes out small and afraid. "You're Cerberus?" she asks Hope. "Your name is Hope Lilium? Or Rasa? Or Sasha?" Hope narrows her eyes. "Who the hell are you? Have you been lying to me this entire time?"

"I have been with you through the entirety of your existence—"

"No you haven't," Grace says sharply. "I only exist when I'm with you? Is that it?" Something dark and melancholy touches Hope's features before it extinguishes again becoming hard and unflinching. "Who are you? How can I believe anything you say?"

"You're taking his word over mine? You idiot." She cocks the hammer to the gun, turning her undivided attention and hatred to the Cerberus agent. "What have you been filling her head with?"

"Only the truth. Answers. All the things you've been hiding and keeping to yourself." He buckles forward when she slams him in the back of the head with the gun, his forehead smacking into the floor. Grace steps forward, gripping the pistol more tightly.

"Back off," she tells Hope. She reaches blindly for him, yanking him to a sitting, keeping the gun on Hope. "Don't do this. If you trust me you'll let me talk to him. You'll let me make my own decision." Hope's jaw clenches, her eyes shimmering for an instant. Tears of anger? Tears of betrayal? Maybe she's frustrated or sad. Maybe it's only the rain. "It's the least you owe me."

"I'm sorry Grace, but I can't let you do that," Hope says.

The Cerberus soldier looks up at her. The sunglasses have fallen off his face. "All her life this woman has only ever known how to lie and betray," he says, "I want to help you. We can find out where you came from. We can give you back your past. All you have to do is come with us. Don't let her do this, Shepard Jr."

Hope pulls the trigger. His skull erupts. Grace screams without meaning to. She slams Hope into a wall. She doesn't know how it happens, she doesn't know how she's pinned her there, only knows that she has, that she's trapped her and Hope doesn't look at her, can't maybe, because Grace is shouting. "He was unarmed…! He was bound...! You liar...! You monster...!"

She could kill her. She should kill her. She's a liar. She's a coward. She's a betrayer. She should kill her. She should kill her. Hope has taken the opportunity of finding out who she is away from her. She wouldn't even let her try. She can't breathe. She can't breathe. Hope snatches her face in her hands. "Listen to me," Grace can't listen, "Listen to me. Whoever you think that was, it wasn't. You don't know Cerberus. I do. They will lie and do whatever it takes for you to believe them, believe me. If nothing else—" Hope's voice is panicked and flush with emotion.

Grace slams her back into the wall. She walks back into the rain, heaving and hyperventilating for breath.

* * *

Shepard has ordered shore leave for all Normandy SR-2 crewmembers. The ship is strangely empty and alienating without any of the staff. Miranda likes the quiet though now it only serves for her to relive her conversation with the Illusive Man. She brought him information on the Shepard sightings. She didn't know why she expected answers. He was grateful for the tip and went so far as to say that he had just the team in mind to look into it before telling her to resume her duties as executive officer.

He's shutting her out. He knew the clones were live and hadn't bothered to tell her. He's keeping her in the dark but why? Unsure she'll be able to bottle her frustration much longer if she remains onboard the Normandy she steps out onto the Citadel. She receives messages from Jacob and Shepard informing her that they're at the Dark Star Lounge and she's expected.

Miranda never thought Jacob would ever adopt Shepard's stance on anything. More likely he's concerned she isn't practicing good self-care. Who has time for that when she has to oversee the Collector mission? She makes her way through Citadel security, earning approving glances from some—likely the ones that don't know she's with Cerberus—and disgruntled approving looks from others—likely the ones that do.

Liara has returned to the Shadow Broker ship. It's unlikely that Shepard didn't invite her but regardless, the Commander appears to be in good spirits. Liara said little when she left, her face somewhat pensive, if not blank. Miranda won't be too surprised if she receives some message from her in the future. Miranda instructed the drone to forward her the 'Shepard sightings' feeds but who knows what else is buried in the network? She only had so much time. Miranda doesn't doubt that Liara will quickly find that Cerberus data is conspicuously absent from the network. She'll want answers but Miranda isn't ready or willing to divulge any just yet.

The grating music from the Dark Star Lounge can be heard outside of the club. She sighs inwardly before entering, searching the darkness through the flashing lights for the crewmembers. Tali and Garrus are next to the dance floor, appearing to be shouting at each other in attempts to hear one another.

Zaeed, Thane and Grunt are crowded comically around a small table, playing a game of Skyllian Blitz with Daniels and Donnelly. Samara chats with an attractive young man in a corner, her haunting eyes carrying a hint of amusement in them. Mordin and Jacob are at the gambling tables on the second floor, Mordin's mouth moving rapidly. Jacob looks miserable and bored.

Jack and Shepard predictably sit at the bar with a collection of drinks in front of them. She's made an appearance. Maybe saying hello will suffice and she can return onboard to continue her search into the Shepard sightings.

"Now I'm bloody terrified to go back. First whatever those nasty bug things were and now this."

Miranda turns her head in the direction of a young Indian woman in an Alliance uniform animatedly waving her drink as she speaks and spilling half of it in the process. She doesn't appear drunk. Her companion, a plainer blonde woman looks chagrined about the situation. "Samantha," she speaks delicately, "the point tonight was to get away from all of that stuff. Get drunk, dance, get laid, maybe?"

"I'm sorry I'm being a stick in the mud about all of this," Samantha returns shortly, "you act as if I'm not making an effort. Most people would be curled in the fetal position after hearing from their parents that they were nearly shot by some soldiers after the great Commander Shepard. That was my initial plan, for the record. Instead I'm content to talk about it in a club," she laughs dryly. "I'm so self-centered. Aren't colonies supposed to be safe? All of this happening, in Horizon! They should have never left London."

Miranda steps up to the women. The blonde looks at her with obvious irritation. Samantha looks at her and then away, quickly downing the small remainder of the drink. "You'll excuse us," Miranda says to the friend. "Now." The woman leaves, perhaps happy for a reason to leave her sour friend behind. She makes her way to the dance floor. Miranda's secretly grateful she never bothered making friends. They seem a nuisance. Niket is the exception.

"So," Samantha reaches to a nearby table, taking a handful of small cubed napkins and wiping her hands. She hits her with a bright smile. "Come here often?"

Miranda frowns gently. Is she hitting on her? "That's classified." Samantha arches her eyebrows. "I need you to tell me about the Horizon incident. What's your last name?" Traynor, Samantha tells her in a bit of a daze. Miranda nods and types it into the omni-tool. The name pops up, along with a picture, the dates she was there and aptitude scores. She's intelligent. "Ah, yes. You were on Horizon during the Collector attack."

"Pulled that right up, did you? Impressive and not worrisome in the slightest."

"These sorts of things need to be verified. You wouldn't believe the inane things people with little self-worth brag about." A beat. "I'm not actually interested about your experience on Horizon so let's move along. Tell me more about the correspondence with your parents. You mentioned Commander Shepard and some soldiers were there today?" If the woman's parents were endangered no doubt Miranda shares some of the blame. She brushes the thought aside. She has a job to do.

The smile on the woman's lips had been waning for some time and now disappears entirely. Her eyebrows are furrowed, lips set thin. "Actually…," she says thoughtfully, "it occurs to me that I don't want to tell you anything. You usually have to buy a girl dinner before you ask her to bare her past and current traumatic experiences. This is fast— even for lesbians." Miranda purses her lips quizzically, unsure of where the conversation is going. "Which I don't think you are—_damn_, by the way—so I'll be going."

"Ah—wait," she says. She attempts to reach out to her but Samantha Traynor, most definitely not drunk, slips her grasp and moves on her way. Bloody hell. Her opportunity to find out what happened on Horizon squandered. That could have gone better. Miranda watches the woman move into the crowd, an array of colorful lights washing over her.

Two noes in one day. That's never happened before. She must be losing her touch.


End file.
